


Addict With A Pen

by Wizard95



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Be patient the Enjoltaire is coming soon, Did I already mention angst? A lot of it bc I love it, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grantaire is initially in love with Courfeyrac., Grantaire-centric, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Then Enj comes into the pic, Unrequited Love, drugs as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-20 23:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 68,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6030532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire didn’t realize it, at first. How Courfeyrac, with his light and his laughter seemed to be the perfect repellent for his dark thoughts. But they’d crept back, out of whatever distant part of his mind they’d locked themselves in. They’d crept back in such an unexpected and merciless way that Grantaire didn’t even entertain the possibility of fighting them. He just fell to his knees, and gave in. He’d hit rock bottom and he wasn’t strong enough to climb back up. When had he ever been strong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Another Ordinary Grantaire Day

**Author's Note:**

> I bought the brick just recently and haven’t had time to read much, my knowledge comes purely from tumblr & the 2012 musical so I'll try my best to depict the amis' personalities accurately. / Not a native speaker so please bear with my English? / Title courtesy of Twenty One Pilots [check 'em out they're awesome](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyXEvDXqeeI).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is a disappointment, alcohol is involved, the usual drill.

Hardly has the clock hit nine when Grantaire starts cursing under his breath as he makes his way towards the door, hoping to get there before Courfeyrac. See, these are the moments in which he highly regrets having given his best friend a key.  Because he couldn’t make it to the door, and he knows he's lost the battle when Courf appears in front of him wearing that silly smile –which gradually turns into a frown–.

“I knew I should’ve come earlier” he speaks, and then lets out a sigh. That sigh, oh, Grantaire hates it. The sigh of ‘you’re a lost cause’.

“Don’t panic, I’ll be dressed and sober in five minutes” Grantaire answers, making his way towards the wardrobe and picking the first thing at hand. A ‘The Beatles’ hoodie and dark-blue cotton pants. When he turns around, he bites his lip at the sight of Courfeyrac with the nearly empty bottle of vodka in his hand.

And before hearing another sigh, he locks himself up in the bathroom.

As he tries to relax under the hot water, regret starts growing inside of him. _One day, Grantaire. Just one day and you couldn’t make it. One fucking day._

Three minutes later he steps out of the shower to hear hustle coming out of the kitchen, and once again, as he stares at his reflection on the mirror –the paleness of his skin, the red colour surrounding his eyes–, he feels guilty.

He doesn't deserve a friend like Courfeyrac. Courf deserves _so_ much more than him. Of course, that isn't what his friend thinks at all, which is the reason why he's probably making him breakfast at the moment. Even though he'd promised he’d be punctual. That he wouldn’t drink, that he’d be waiting for him at the lobby and that they’d arrive at the planetarium with time to spare. Courfeyrac could’ve driven away. Continued his way, and he, would’ve woken up three hours later and would’ve probably drunk another bottle of whatever was left on his cupboard at the realization.

But Courf hadn’t left. Because he had been planning this day for two months now. Because he had talked, and talked, and talked about it every single time they had met –on a bar, at the cinema, at work, on the casual rides from school–, and Grantaire had actually been listening. Something he usually doesn’t do, because whereas Courf’s obsessions are the stars, Jupiter’s ring and the ‘fascinating shades of red that cover Mars ground’, his interests are actually more down to earth. Literally.

But, they got to a point in which he couldn’t possibly avoid it any longer. Listening.

Courf had insisted on it.

“It’ll be the most wonderful thing you’ll ever witness” he had said one night, to which Grantaire had answered: “I doubt it. Why are you wasting your time with me, pal?”

But Courfeyrac wasn’t about to give up.

“Eponine would probably say yes if you invited her. In fact, she might probably say yes to other –more entertaining and productive– things once you take her there. Did you say the place would be empty?”

“I don’t want to take Eponine there. I want to go with you” he had cut him off. Grantaire had swallowed the beer slowly, a little bit startled by the words, which soon he realized, contained no secondary intentions nor hidden messages –he also decided that it was enough alcohol for that night–.

“Oh” he had smiled and turned to Courf. “I’m flattered”.

He didn’t agree to go that time either. In fact, he's sure he would’ve kept turning down the invitation if it hadn’t been for that night… –in which he'd been pretty much up in the clouds, lying on his bed, 3am, and Courf’s words had been resounding in his head: ‘ _It’s on the 20th, a Sunday, you never do much on Sundays anyway_ ’–.

20th. The 20th. What month were they on? August? August the twentieth. Something was missing… Something that was staring right at his face.

Next morning, headache present, an untouched bowl of –probably expired– cereals in front of him, the calendar hanging on the opposite wall, it hit him. “Birthday!”

He had kicked himself the rest of that day for being such an asshole –even though it wasn’t news–, and when Courfeyrac phoned him, he still tried to sound unenthusiastic about it as he told him he had changed his mind.  Besides, his friend was right, he never did anything interesting on Sundays anyway. Or any other day, as a matter of fact.

“You don’t hide your back-up behind the curtains of the bathtub, do you?” Courf knocks on the bathroom door, bringing him back to the present.

He puts the boxers on, followed by the pants and opens the door to face him.

“I’m clean” he lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender.

He drinks Courf’s miraculous brew –whatever it is made of. He's sure he’s asked about the containing substances before, but he can’t possibly recall any of them at the moment– in one shot. Finishes the cereal in less than a minute, and stumbles dangerously once he gets on his feet. Luckily Courfeyrac is there to prevent a nasty fall.

“Hey, easy… We’ve got plenty of time” he reassures him.

 _No we don't_.

“I’m okay” he says, gently pulling Courf aside. “I’m fine” he adds, once again showing his palms to look convincing. Courfeyrac gets out of the way when he makes for the door, fighting back the dizziness.

 

He simply couldn’t do anything right. Not even on his best friend’s birthday! His best friend who had picked _him_ among everybody else: gorgeous ex-girlfriends, the brilliant astronomer/professor/example-to-follow Jean… Valmont? Vermont? Oh! And let’s not forget Courf’s favourite classmate! Combeferre –Grantaire’s Courf’s least favourite classmate–.

Well, he’d only seen the guy twice but once was more than enough to make out his intentions. First and foremost: He was head over heels for Courf – _get in line!_ , Grantaire had thought– and second: he never missed the chance to look down on Grantaire. Especially when Courf wasn’t around. _Mostly_ when he wasn’t around. Which was probably why he and Courf were still in good terms, because Grantaire wasn’t a whiny bitch and wouldn’t go telling like a fucking five-year-old.

He would just imagine Combeferre getting hit by a bus instead. That generally worked.

In conclusion, Courf had a pretty endless list of acquaintances who would be without question a much better company on the most expected day of all time to him than an alcoholic and failure-in-life guy who doesn’t have any knowledge -let alone interest- in Astronomy whatsoever.

And yet there he is, on the co-driver seat, wondering if he's actually done something good in his past life to have such an amazing person as a friend.

“It’s a two-hour trip to the planetarium, if you want to get some sleep” Courf tells him, switching on the engine.

Grantaire lets out an almost inaudible groan.

_Stop it! Stop that! Can’t you just tell me off for at least once in your life?! I deserve it!_

“I think I’ve had enough sleep” he replies, sounding more annoyed than he had intended.

“All right, then” Courf seems not to notice though.

At the first traffic-lights, Courfeyrac turns on the radio, and Grantaire crosses his arms on his chest and doesn’t speak a word. He can see through Courf. He's disappointed in him. He doesn't blame his friend at all. He's on his right to be. No, he blames himself and his damn lack of auto control and compromise instead.

Along the way, he has to fight back the impulse to ask Courf to pull over more than once, so that he doesn't ruin the precious mat under his feet with the contents of his stomach. Surprisingly, they make it to their destination without any incident. Once he steps out of the car, the cold air embraces him and he wishes he'd warmed up a little bit more.

“Will we be outdoors?” he asks, shivering slightly. Courf’s laugh follows.

“Don’t worry, I’m equipped” his friend walks to the back part of the car and soon starts throwing blankets and pillows to Grantaire, who raises his eyebrows in concern.

“I guess you were considering to invite Éponine aft-“

“No I wasn’t” Courfeyrac instantly interrupts him, unamused, and turns on his heels to the big gates, having switched off and secured the car –not like anybody is going to try to steal it anyway. They are in the middle of nowhere, but then again Grantaire supposes planetariums are better far from the city lights–.

“Remind me once again how _exactly_ you got this place rented?” he follows Courf into a big hall and stumbles on the first step of a staircase. “I mean, just to be sure we won’t receive any kind visit from my friends the cops” he jokes.

Courfeyrac turns around to shoot him a killing glare and remains silent for the rest of the walk until they reach the rooftop.

And all right, Grantaire isn't going to lie. The view up there is pretty impressive. The sky above them looks like a scene taken out of a Star Wars movie.

He hears Courf chuckling beside him and stops staring.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” his friend whispers, lost in the same ocean of stars.

“Yeah” is all he can manage.

 

Everything is set. The tent –yes, tent, he doesn't ask– telescope, the snacks, the books –he also doesn't pick on Courf for this, not today–.

It pretty much looks like the most boring birthday celebration anyone could ever have the misfortune to attend. And yet he's here, trying not to fall asleep whilst he hears Courfeyrac mumbling something related to the density of the stars and how lucky they are because the weather conditions ‘ _can't be more ideal’_.

He fails completely.

He realizes he must had in some moment dozed off when he opens his eyes and spots Courf’s place empty, opened books all over the place, an empty orange soda can lying next to ‘The Atlas of the Universe’. He gets on his feet and looks around, wrapping himself up in the sleeping bag. There, a few feet away, the telescope looks at the sky, but his best friend's nowhere to be seen.

“Courf?” he calls out, narrowing his eyes in order to be able to spot him through the darkness that surrounded him. “Courfeyrac?” he tries again. No response.

His body stiffens, and just seconds later, he finds himself walking up to the edge of the rooftop, enclosed by an iron fence, narrowing his eyes even more and letting out a sigh of relief at the sight of Courf’s blue Volvo parked right where they had left it.

Of course Courfeyrac wouldn’t leave him stranded there, what the heck is he even thinking of?

Despite the fact that he might actually deserve it, he knows Courfeyrac isn’t that kind of person. Courfeyrac is an angel. Courfeyrac is _his_ angel.

Grantaire shakes his head to wave those thoughts away.

_Not really the moment to be thinking about your one-sided love towards your straight friend, Grantaire. Not the moment at all._

“Hey” Courf’s voice startles him.

Grantaire turns around and even though he isn’t able to see Courf’s face clearly, he knows something's wrong. He feels so. The enthusiasm and excitement has stopped sprouting from his pores.

Here it comes. He isn’t pretty sure of how Courf was going to do it, but he's been expecting it for quite some time already. Eventually, every person grow tired of him, and the fact that Courfeyrac has endured it for longer than expected -and deserved- doesn’t mean it wouldn’t get to an end at some point.

One part of him, though, is somehow relieved. He could go back to the good old days, when no one was really concerned about his well-being. No one would call him at 7am to make sure he got up with enough time to arrive at school punctually –let alone _actually_ arrive–, and nobody would show up at his house on his birthday to take him to the cinema so that he filled his stomach with popcorn and soda instead of five different types of whisky on his ‘special day’.

 _Birthday_.

He still hasn’t wished Courfeyrac a happy birthday!

He doesn't know how long he's been sleeping for, but he's certain it still isn’t midnight.

Courf approaches from behind, and stops on his right. He leans over the fence and looks up at the stars.

Grantaire slips his left hand into the pocket of his trousers and reaches the little box wrapped on blue paper with stamped silver stars. And he hesitates.

Is it too much? Should he treat him out to a bar instead? Perhaps giving him a necklace is crossing the line?

Those kind of things, he figures, are the kind of things _girlfriends_ give to their boyfriends, and as much as Grantaire wishes Courfeyrac to be more than just the wonderful friend he is to him –he knows he's asking for a miracle, Courf couldn’t possibly be more straight–, he isn’t about to come out of the closet now.

All he wants is for Courf to know how precious he is to him. He wants Courf to know that he will always, always be there for him, for whatever he can need, just as Courf has been there for him ever since they’ve met.

When he’s about to take the box out of his pocket, his mouth opened to congratulate Courfeyrac on his 21st birthday, his friend’s voice stops him.

“I heard you’ve been skipping classes these last weeks” he says, and Grantaire frowns, confused.

_You 'heard'?_

“Well, I’ve been doing extra hours at the bar lately” he explains, and regrets it immediately. Because he knows what Courf’s next question is going to be –why–, and he isn’t sure it’d be approppriate to answer it  – _because I spent all my money on alcohol and I wasn't giving you whiskey as a present_ –. “Montparnasse has the flu, we’re running short on staff” he adds, hoping Courf hasn’t been to the bar recently and knows his co-worker is in perfectly healthy state.

“Oh, really?” Courf faces him.

And for a split second, all Grantaire can see is Courf’s breath-taking eyes, prying into his soul.

For a moment, he seems to have forgotten how to breathe. He obliges himself to stop staring, because deep inside of him, staring isn’t the only thing he's wishing to do at the moment, and if Courfeyrac keeps looking his way, if he doesn't return his gaze to the distant night horizon, Grantaire won't be able to stop himself from ruining three years of friendship.

So he has to do it first.

He looks up to the sky and tries to wave away the blurred thoughts from his mind. The image of his best friend’s inviting lips.

“So… uh… the star-stars storm, is that what you call it?” he blurts out, and curses internally for sounding so not-like-himself.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, ‘Taire?” he inquires, and Grantaire can feel his friend’s gaze on him. His whole body tenses.

_Relax, you’re giving yourself away. Calm down, Grantaire. Calmness._

“How long has this been going on for?” Courf adds, his voice now full of seriousness, and Grantaire knows he has screwed up.

 


	2. Countdown to the Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two revelations Grantaire didn't ask for.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire half-laughs, half-asks. And looks away when Courfeyrac holds his gaze. He wets his lips and bites at the bottom one, and his throat seems to get drier and drier with every passing second. He doesn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth: “How long have _you_ known for?”

And Courf must sense the hostility, because his answer comes out almost instantly:

“Well, you aren’t exactly the shiest of drunks” If that was meant to be funny, it wasn’t.

Grantaire holds back a gasp, for some reason he feels betrayed. It feels like someone’s gripping his gut. What’s _that_ supposed to mean? A week ago? A day ago? A _year_ ago? He’s been drinking for long as he remembers _for fuck’s sake_.

“When were you planning on telling me?”

“Of course I wasn’t planning on telling you!” Grantaire snaps back, finally looking back at Courfeyrac, and he regrets it, because his friend obviously wasn’t expecting to be shouted at. “I was _never_ going to tell you, Courfeyrac. You’re like the straightest guy I fucking know!”

“I’m…”

“Say ‘I’m sorry’ and I swear to God I’m fucking punching you in the face” Grantaire warns him. Courfeyrac just stares at him again. Apologetic. Grantaire can’t take that look and he’s suddenly feeling the urge to jump off the building.

“I just didn’t think it was fair” Courf adds. “And I felt… I felt a horrible friend.”

Grantaire really feels like punching him now.

“Oh my god, Courf.” He sighs in disbelief, and rests a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re too kind for your own good.” He feels tempted to pull him in for a kiss, or for a hug, or for anything, because this might be the only chance he’ll get, maybe Courf will forgive him this time, shrug it out, take pity on him. He removes it when Courf looks down awkwardly, though. “See, that’s why I never told you”.

“Grantaire, I-“

“Save it” Grantaire cuts him off, and makes his way back to the sleeping bag lying on the floor. “Can we just pretend the last ten minutes didn’t happen?” he asks, and sees Courf hasn’t moved from his spot. He doesn’t look at him, he looks to the sky and wishes so badly that fucking star storm starts happening soon because he knows nothing else will be enough of a distraction for Courf.

Hell, he’d been trying to hide his feelings so badly and Courf had fucking known all along.

 _Fuck_ , he needs a drink.

“I need to tell you something” Courf speaks up. Grantaire places both his hands below his head and looks in his direction.

Well, that tone of voice can never mean something good. Courf is probably –officially– going to tell him that he’s rubbish and that he doesn’t want to see him ever again because he’s the worst influence he could ever have –and now that he knows Grantaire plays for the other team, that’s probably been the last straw. R is certain Courf isn’t exactly homophobic, but this is not that. This is his best friend being in love with him, there is only so much Courf can endure– and Grantaire is okay with that, he just wishes it happens fast.

He even wants to tell Courf that it’s fine, no big deal. Courf shouldn’t feel guilty for wanting to get rid of such a shitty friend who literally contributed to their friendship by only paying for their alcoholic drinks whenever they went out – _that is_ , when he _was_ able to pay– which wasn’t really often, what with Courf being too busy studying when he wasn’t too busy studying _even more_.

If Grantaire were such great a friend as Courf, he probably would’ve ended their friendship long ago. For the sake of both of them. Maybe more for his own sake. Maybe he wouldn’t be so deep in shit right now. Maybe he wouldn’t have fallen so _fucking_ hard.

“I’m moving to Paris.”

Moving.

 

To.

 

Paris.

 

Paris.

 

Paris?

 

Paris as in _France Paris_?

 

 _Europe Paris_?

 

 _Another continent Paris_?

 

“Taire”

Grantaire closes his mouth when he notices it’s wide open. Courfeyrac is approaching now, he’s sitting crossed-legged next to him, and Grantaire is still lying on the sleeping bag.

“When?” he asks, words almost a silent whisper.

And Grantaire is starting to feel dizzy, because Courfeyrac isn’t answering. And why isn’t he answering him? Why is he looking at him that way _again_? He knows Grantaire hates it when he gives him that look, he’s not a stray puppy. “When, Courfeyrac.” He adds, and it sounds like an order rather than a question. And Grantaire doesn’t even want to hear the answer anymore. He covers his face with his hands and inhales.

“This Saturday” he hears. Or thinks he heard. Yeah, he probably heard wrong, he can’t have heard ‘this Saturday’. Because ‘this Saturday’ is only three days away –is it midnight already?–, and Courfeyrac can’t have waited _until he only had three days left to tell him he was fucking leaving him alone and moving the fuck out to a place who-the-fuck-knows how far away_!

“When-why- how did this… why?” he blurts out, now adopting a sitting position. He can’t think, it’s too hot, it’s too cold, he can’t breathe.

“I sent an application- well, I got a scholarship, in fact-“

“No, Courf” Grantaire cuts him off, sighing deeply, because of course he got a scholarship in a prestigious French university, because _Courfeyrac_. “Why did you wait till now… to tell me?” He asks, as gently as he can manage, but fears he won’t be able to hold it in for much longer.

Courf doesn’t answer, again, and Grantaire puts his hands inside the pockets of the hoodie – Courf’s hoodie, that he borrowed a couple of hours ago – mostly because he wants to hide them turning into fists.

“I didn’t want you to-“

“What? You didn’t want me to _what_?”

Courf’s lips are trembling and Grantaire stands up because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep it together if Courfeyrac starts crying his eyes out less than a feet from him. But it’s no use really, because Courf stands up to face him and his cheeks are already wet.

“Because I didn’t want to see you drinking yourself to waste, that’s why.” His friend spits out, almost defensive. And Grantaire stares at him open-mouthed for a couple of seconds.

“Excuse me, have you met me?”

“You know that’s not what I mean” Courf takes a step towards him, and Grantaire thinks he just saw blinking lights in the sky with the corner of his eye, but he seriously couldn’t give any shits about whatever it was they had come here to do.

“Enlighten me, then” he says, theatrically rolling his eyes like he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know that Courf is right. Damn, Courfeyrac is always right, and _damn_ Grantaire is yearning so much for a drink right now. And he hates himself for it, for being so predictable and so transparent. Or perhaps he’s not, perhaps Courfeyrac is just a fantastically good reader.

“Grantaire, you ended up in the hospital last time I went to my parents’ _for a week_.”

“It was six days, it was only a fucking broken nose” surely there must be something that Grantaire can fight back with, right?

“You passed out on a bar” Courfeyrac looks like he’s gritting his teeth, but Grantaire is going to ignore that because he’s probably imagining it, because Courf has never been _that_ angry with him – believe it or not –, and there is _no_ way he is gritting his teeth _at him_ right now like he’s the guilty one here, he’s not the one leaving the country in less than seventy-two hours.

“I pass out all the time” he answers, matter-of-factly, like he doesn’t know he’s losing the battle. Like he doesn’t care. And really, he probably wouldn’t care if the circumstances were different. If the only person he holds on to for dear life wasn’t flying away. Really far away. This would be just another one of those fights.

He’s used to being told off by Courf and being told he’s selfish, being asked to check in a couple of times a day so that Courf can study in peace –and forgetting doing it, of course–. And Courfeyrac is also used to jumping out of bed when his phone rings in the middle of the night because Grantaire is probably highly inebriated and half-asleep in some dirty alley or –when his birthday is approaching, normally– at a police station.

“Promise me.” Courfeyrac suddenly says, and Grantaire _almost_ lets out a laugh. Because his best friend –or ex-best friend, Grantaire thinks he’ll have to get used to _that_ now– knows he doesn’t make promises.

“Are we done?” he raises his eyebrows and points to the sky “because you’re missing the event of the year. Really Courf, it wouldn’t have hurt you to wait a couple of extra hours to spill the beans, you’re missing out!”

“Grantaire.”

“What are two more hours after all? Give or take, you might as well have showed up two hours before the flight, ‘ _Hey Taire! Good morning, I’m leaving off to France, no, that’s ok, finish your cereal, I still have twelve minutes until the taxi arrives, in your own time, no ru-_ ‘”

Courfeyrac throws himself onto him with such urge that Grantaire’s words get stuck in his throat, and he stumbles back. He instantly wraps his arms around his friend and buries his face on his shoulder, inhaling its perfume, Courfeyrac’s perfume. And he doesn’t cry, he normally doesn’t let anyone see him cry, because crying means weakness. Crying means admitting defeat, admitting that he’s falling down.

But not yet. He’s still high. Courf is still here, after all.

He’s starting to feel it, though. It’s going to hurt. It’s going to leave him breathless, and hopeless and clueless. The landing.

 

 

(He cries).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate it? Love it? Want to throw a tomato at me?


	3. Any Other Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine tries to make Grantaire be rational, and surprisingly, no it doesn't work.

 

Grantaire promises Courfeyrac he isn’t going to drink… too much. They both know it’s bullshit but Grantaire tries to sound like he is going to try and stick to his word, and can see Courf is grateful for it. They catch like nine minutes of the stars storm, but Grantaire only remembers Courf’s body lying next to his, and Courf’s chest going up and down, and Courf’s hand in his. He doesn’t remember the blinking lights, he doesn’t even remember Courf’s comments of admiration or whatever crap about Astronomy he had been going on about. He was too busy trying to commit to memory every curve of his friend’s body, and every aspect of his personality, and his voice, and his perfume. And Courf was probably aware that R wasn’t paying attention to him, but he continued with his speech nonetheless.

On the way home, Grantaire is the one to turn on the radio, because Courfeyrac won’t stop telling him that he can call him whenever he feels like, that they will keep in touch through Facebook or Skype, that he’ll come on Christmas and New Year’s Eve and other holidays, and a lot of crap which isn’t what Grantaire wants to hear. ‘ _Remember that April Fool’s day? I told you I was going to get my own back_ ’, that’s what he wants to hear, or something the like. Anything, really, so long as it means Courf isn’t leaving. But it doesn’t happen, so he switches that shit on and turns up the volume and closes his eyes and tries to pretend he doesn’t only have two more days before Courf leaves.

For four years.

To Europe.

He lets out a deep sigh, gets comfortable on the co-driver seat, and falls asleep. The sun is coming out when Courfeyrac shakes him awake.

Grantaire blinks a couple of times, startled, and turns to Courf.

“This is you” he says.

Grantaire straightens up on the seat and runs a hand through his hair.

“Want to come in?” he offers to Courf, and it feels weird and Grantaire hates it. Any other day, R wouldn’t even be asking.

Courfeyrac doesn’t answer right away, and Grantaire decides to not make this awkward. God, things had never been awkward before! Well, that was when he didn’t know Courf was aware of his massive crush on him. Damn it. “Never mind” he adds, “you’re probably very tired and want to sleep-“

“Well, I can always use your bed” Courf cuts him off, and R stops mid-sentence, taken aback by the comment, which wouldn’t feel this weird any other day. This day clearly isn’t like any other. And nor will the days to come.

Courf got off the car first, and Grantaire stumbled his way out shortly after, sleepiness still not completely gone. Grantaire lives on the fourth floor, and the lift normally gets there in less than thirty seconds, but today, it feels more like four minutes. And R is getting pretty annoyed by it, by how everything between him and Courf seems to be out of place now.

Courf heads for the bedroom as soon as he steps in.

“I’m just going to have a short nap” he announces, yawning in the middle of the sentence. Grantaire throws the keys on the kitchen isle and answers with a pretty vague “sure”.

And then the house falls silent.

Grantaire is standing in the middle of the living room, blank. He would’ve joined Courf on the bed any other day, and watched TV or something, but now he can’t bring himself to do it because it feels intrusive. He’s grateful Courf doesn’t comment on it, and decides it’s for the better.

He settles on the couch with his sketchbook.

Maybe he’s the only one feeling this way.

Maybe Courf doesn’t notice anything off.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Grantaire has always been one for wandering in his own thoughts and disconnecting and over-thinking. But then again, there are a lot of things to dwell-on, most of which include the waste of space he is, and his shitty lifestyle and how he practically fucks up everything he does. And Courfeyrac, of course. Courf was the light, Courf was his happy thoughts, the balance.

The balance which he would lose. Was losing.

 

 

“Don’t be stupid, Grantaire.” Eponine growls, really pissed off now, and R fixes his gaze on the glass resting on the counter, trying not to flinch because she’s in front of him now, within hand reach. See, you don’t mess with Eponine unless you’re actually willing to take a beating. There is but one person who can get away with almost anything, and that is Gavroche, the little fucker. But he isn’t around now, so Grantaire has to manage alone. “I swear to god, you are going to that airport even if I have to drag you there myself” she adds, and okay, Grantaire may or may not have leaned back a little bit when she raised her hand to point at him menacingly. “Mark my words”

“You’re making such a fuss out of it” Grantaire sighs, and swallows down the rest of the whiskey in one shot, because it’s only six more hours until Courf’s flight takes off, and Grantaire has obviously told him he’d meet him there, because there was no way he was going to refuse with Courfeyrac in front of him giving him that look.

Except. He isn’t going. Not today, and not in a thousand years. Because Courfeyrac is leaving with Combeferre.

It had taken all of Grantaire’s auto control not to throw a punch at Courf when he made the announcement, right before he left R’s apartment the day before. He waited until his friend had pulled into the driveway, and threw against the wall the nearest object he could reach –the keys to his apartment-. A couple of chairs suffered some minor damage, and he also broke the remote for the TV –because it stopped working, all right?-.

As if Courf knew it’d be the last straw, he had waited until the last minute to reveal it. ‘ _You will be there, won’t you?_ ’ he still can hear his friend’s voice ringing inside his head, expectant, almost apologetic, even. ‘ _I will_ ’ had answered Grantaire, because he needed Courf to leave. _Leave now or I won’t be able to stop myself._

“I? _I am_?”

Grantaire presses his eyes and pushes the glass forward so that Eponine fills it in again, for the fourth time. He wouldn’t even be here weren’t it for the free drinks.

“Grantaire,” her voice comes out softer now “don’t do something you’ll regret”.

Taire looks up, and Eponine places a hand on his, showing a gentle smile which is normally reserved for Gavroche when he turns up from school, all bruised up.

“I’m not going.” He answers sharply. He won’t let Eponine talk him into it. He’s made up his mind. He knows he’ll just feel worse if he sees them leaving together. “He doesn’t need me there anyway, he’s got that shitface with him”.

Eponine turns around to fill up the glass, and Grantaire isn’t sure if what she just let out is a laugh or a groan.

“You’re his _best friend_ ”

“Really? You’re going with that?” he swallows down the alcohol and leaves the glass on the counter noisily.

Best friends don’t lie to each other. Courfeyrac had been but lying to him for two fucking months. He just hadn’t thought to share with his ‘best friend’ any of it, as if Grantaire was a fucking child who couldn’t deal with the truth.

“Besides, ‘Ferre isn’t that bad” Eponine adds, coming back to lean in front of Grantaire after handing a six-pack to some students.

“ _’Ferre?_ ” R practically spits the word. Eponine shrugs.

“I’ve meet him, he’s a cool guy, bet you’d like him if you weren’t so into Courfeyrac, jealously brings out the worst in people”

Grantaire lets out a laugh, in disbelief, and decides he’s leaving before Eponine’s name ends up on his black list.

“Right, of course” he mutters, snatching his jacket from the back of the chair.

“You’re behaving like a fucking kid, Grantaire. _You go to that fucking airport, do you hear me?! Grantaire, I swear-!_ ” R doesn’t turn around, but shows her the middle finger right after exiting the bar.

 

“I’m sure he’ll be here any moment, Courf” Combeferre says for the fifth time, rubbing a hand over Courfeyrac’s back. Courf doesn’t answer this time, doesn’t even shake his head. He just stares at his ticket and doesn’t look up for another minute, when he eyes the perimeter, hopelessly hoping Grantaire turns round the snack machine running towards them.

Combeferre clenches his jaw as Courfeyrac dials Grantaire’s number _again_. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done it in the last hour and he just wants to snatch it out of Courf’s hands and hug him tightly.

By the time they’re called to board through the speakers, Courf is crying non-stop, and apologising non-stop, and Combeferre is feeling a terrible urge to murder certain bloke.

He takes Courf’s hand and doesn’t let go for a good couple of hours.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( Just for the record, I love Combeferre<3 )


	4. Grantaire Has Moved On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or has he...

It’s four in the afternoon and Grantaire is spread out on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, it’s hot inside, and it smells like sweat and cigarettes and, of course, booze. Montparnasse’s head is resting on his stomach and he’s sweaty and Grantaire tries to slide off without waking him up. The muffled sounds of the city creep through the windows.

He rolls out of bed and falls gracelessly to the floor, where he lands next to a couple of empty bottles of alcohol and about eight cans that he’s not sure are completely empty, and what’s that liquid on his right foot?

He lets out a sigh and kicks a can, managing to stand up despite the drilling in his head. His shift starts in two hours and he needs to come to terms with the hangover if he wants to survive the night. He frowns just at the thought of loud music and loud people and loud _anything –_ hence the reluctance settling in once he makes his way to the bathroom _–_. He climbs onto the bath with his socks on, and places both hands on his calf as though that’s going to make the pounding on his head decrease.

He endures it for a couple of minutes and turns off the tap after rinsing his hair and body absent-mindedly. He’s probably got rid of most of the dirt by now, so he climbs out of the bath and sways dangerously on the wet floor.

“ _Fuck_ ” he curses, snatching a dry towel that’s hanging from the doorknob. Dry, yes. Clean, not so much.

He dries himself off as best as he can, and changes his underwear and puts on a pair of worn-out black jeans. He doesn’t bother shaving off, it’s too much work, and he just wants to sit in a corner and pass out. He walks up to the bed and sits down gently, looking at the scruffy mass of hair and sighing. Montparnasse must have joined him in bed just a couple of hours ago. He’s snoring softly and Grantaire concentrates on his stomach going up and down with every breath he takes. It’s comforting. It calms him. It makes him drift back to sleep before he even knows it.

It’s the nausea what wakes him up. Montparnasse has moved and is again resting his head on R’s chest, but Grantaire doesn’t have time to be gentle this time, he jumps out of bed and stumbles his way toward the bathroom, kneeling down just in time to empty the contents of his stomach in the toilet.

He’s still gagging when he feels Montparnasse’s hand on his nape, cold and comforting. It takes him back for a moment. The first time he and Montparnasse fucked, Grantaire knew it was only one night of many others to come, but when Montparnasse placed his hand on his forehead as he puked into the sink one morning, mumbling something sweet that Grantaire can’t possibly remember, he had been caught off guard. He hadn’t known Montparnasse for much time then, but he had always struck him as a rather tough and cold-hearted guy.

He _was_ rather rough in bed –which Grantaire wasn’t about to complain about–, but surprisingly cuddly and touchy in the aftermath. Montparnasse was certainly more than he let others know. That, he had learnt a long time ago. He was protective, and possessive and intimidating when it came to his friends. Grantaire had seen him punching guys at the bar more times that he could count, way before they were even friends. But there had always been a reason, and that reason was, an 80% of the time, Eponine.

It’s not like Ep couldn’t take care of herself, in fact, it was anything but. Montparnasse just wasn’t very patient and unlike his boss, couldn’t stand people overstepping their boundaries. Mont simply couldn’t hold back his killing instincts, and after he sent a regular to the hospital because he called Eponine some things that R was too busy to catch because he was making sure his co-corker didn’t end up in jail, they both agreed it was time to pick up a hobby.

And that’s how they became boxing buddies. Grantaire wasn’t quite into it at first, but his problems were quick to catch up with him and before he knew it, Montparnasse was coaching him on how to knock someone unconscious by hitting the right spot on their heads –you never know when you’ll find that handy–. And then one day Montparnasse ended on top of him during a very heated encounter on the ring, and then they were kissing and then they had somehow ended locked up in the shower room doing some very filthy things that Grantaire could remember vividly even to this day. Because it had probably been _the_ best orgasm he’d had in his life.

And here they were now. Living together. It had happened, at some point. And Grantaire has almost managed to leave his old life behind. He’s finished his studies –and he definitely did not cry when he got home to Eponine and Gavroche hanging a banner from the wall and Montparnasse attempting to decorate a cake on their kitchen counter, he had totally _not_ cried–. He’s volunteering at a school for less-privileged kids, and he can’t be happier about it. And most importantly, he definitely, truly, totally, doesn’t think of Courfeyrac. At all. Ever.

“I’m okay Mont, sorry I woke you up” Grantaire stands up after flushing the toilet, and turns around to brush his teeth. He smiles at his shirtless boyfriend, who mumbles something intelligible and approaches from behind, sliding his hands around R’s waist.

“Why don’t you call in sick?” Montparnasse is pressing his mouth to his neck and his words come out muffled. “I’ll talk to Ep, tell her you caught a fever or smth…”

R lets out a laugh as he washes his mouth and puts his tooth-brush back into the glass.

“Mont, it’s the middle of the summer” he turns around. Montparnasse doesn’t unglue himself from Grantaire, he just looks at him from behind his mess of a mane.

“Exactly, I’ll tell her I couldn’t make out the difference” he smiles that smile that Grantaire knows very well means getting late to work if he gives in.

He puts his hands on top of his boyfriend’s and walks him back to bed.

“C’mon” Montparnasse insists, making something that looks like a pout with his face. Grantaire shakes his head and is about to tell him to behave but Parnasse is pinning him against the wardrobe before he knows it.

Shit, he doesn’t have time for this.

“Ple-please-“ he pleads in between kisses, breathless and hard already –well that’s a record–, and Montparnasse must have got the wrong end of the stick, because he’s undoing R’s belt in the blink of an eye. “No- that’s not- _fuck_ ” His heartbeat is rising and there’s a sudden ringing in his ears and Grantaire knows that he’s lost the battle when Montparnasse’s lips brush the shaft of his cock. He keeps him in place with both hands on his hips, when Grantaire’s legs start to give in.

He closes his eyes and lets his hands rest on his boyfriend’s head as it moves back and forth. When he starts to feel the familiar warmth in his stomach, he opens his eyes and looks down, and that’s the last straw. He manages to warn Montparnasse by tugging at his hair, and he kneels back up to kiss Grantaire as his whole body shakes with pleasure.

Grantaire can feel his boyfriend’s breath on his neck, his sweaty skin and his crazy heartbeat. He’s suddenly feeling too light-headed and the grip on his waist becomes stronger as Montparnasse struggles to keep him up.

“Shit, R” he breathes out.

Grantaire is too far gone to answer. He clings onto Montparnasse’s shoulders until his breath evens out.

“All right?” Parnasse asks after a few minutes, kissing him gently on the cheek. Grantaire nods, although he’s still not sure the dizziness has gone away. He opens his eyes to find his boyfriend frowning worryingly at him, his lips swollen and his forehead shiny with sweat.

“That was intense” he breathes out.

“That was quick” the other retorts, teasing.

He looks down to the bump in Montparnasse’s boxers and makes a vague gesture towards it “I can-“

“No, that’s fine”

“But-“

“Nu-huh” Montparnasse slides Grantaire’s boxers up and puts his trousers back in place. “Come on, you need coffee” he makes his way out of the room after giving R a short kiss.

Grantaire takes a few moments to recover and follows him to the kitchen, carrying the cans and bottles from their floor and putting them on the trash can. He hops on the kitchen counter while Montparnasse plugs in the coffee maker. “I can make myself coffee, go back to bed”

“Well aren’t you the perfect boyfriend”

Grantaire snorts. He’s far from perfect.

“I’m not sleepy, and since my stubborn boyfriend can’t admit he’s having the hangover of the year, I’m trying to spend with him the little time he has available.”

Montparnasse doesn’t mean it in a bad way, he knows it. But it makes Grantaire feel bad nonetheless. He doesn’t have much time what with his job and the art classes. Montparnasse is happy for him, even though the volunteering takes up most of the time they used to spend together, since Eponine refused to change either of their shifts, claiming Montparnasse was going to finally get himself fired by her parents if he made a scene if some drunkard so much as checked R out.

“Oh please, that was _one time_ ” Montparnasse had chimed in, laughing it off.

Eponine had sent him an incredulous look.

“You have some serious amnesia”

“Eponine, I think I can keep my boyfriend in check.” Grantaire had sent Montparnasse a look that meant ‘you shut up, I’ve got this’, and Montparnasse had flicked the finger at him.

“I think you can’t even keep _yourself_ in check, R”

In the end, they had resorted to begging. It was something that the three of them had agreed never to talk about. Eponine still brought it up at inconvenient times when she could use it to her advantage.

To make the story short, she hadn’t given in. And as Grantaire worked the night shift and gave classes during the day, that only left about one hour available to spend with Montparnasse. They were normally too tired to do anything but sleep, but it was on weekends when they enjoyed each other’s company a little more. Like today.

Grantaire accepts the cup of black coffee that Montparnasse is handing him.

“I can’t skip work or we’ll never afford an air-conditioner” he chuckled.

Montparnasse puffs out air and caresses Grantaire’s bare hips again.

“I’ll drive you” he mumbles. Grantaire takes a sip of the coffee and shakes his head.

“No way, you’re not getting on that motorbike with two hours of sleep”

“Neither are you with your massive hangover”

Grantaire groans dramatically.

“I’m _fine_ ”

“Sure, I blew you and you almost passed out, totally fine” Parnasse rolls his eyes.

Grantaire puts the cup to his lips and smiles.

“I told you I wasn’t feeling up to your amazing blowjobs” he takes a sip, “Well, tried to”

Montparnasse lets out a laugh that dies too quickly for Grantaire’s comfort. He stares into R’s eyes, and his hands start rubbing circles on his boyfriend’s stomach. Grantaire busies himself by swallowing down the beverage, because he hears the question before Montparnasse even makes it up in his head.

“You didn’t take anything else, did-“

“ _No._ ” he cuts him off.

Montparnasse holds his gaze, his hands going still. He doesn’t believe him.

“You know I’m not gonna be mad at you, right?”

Grantaire lets out a sigh.

“Mont, I haven’t taken anything” he hops off the counter and takes the cup with him to the sink.

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Grantaire shots him a side look to look more convincing. “I’m gonna be late.”

He closes the tap and makes a beeline for their bedroom with Montparnasse following right behind. He can feel him staring him down as he puts on a shirt.

“I didn’t take anything, Montparnasse.” He insists, more serious now. “I swear.”

He kisses his boyfriend goodbye –Montparnasse doesn’t seem to return the kiss with as much willingness–, and the feeling of remorse has already settled in by the time he reaches the door of the apartment and walks up to the elevator.


	5. Eponine Isn't as Easily Fooled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Grantaire wishes he'd listened to his boyfriend.

Grantaire is _not_ a drug addict. He’s not edgy when he doesn’t have it and his hands don’t start trembling when the effect starts dying down. He doesn’t need to get high to function. He only needs something stronger than alcohol, and faster, to disconnect. He can’t show up for classes smelling like a liquor store. He only shoots up about once a week, and is careful not to do it when there is a high chance he’ll spend time with Parnasse. Because Parnasse is like a sniffing dog. And it’s not because he’s his boyfriend, if anything, Grantaire wishes that was the only reason why Montparnasse had such an ability.

He looks out of the window and takes a deep breath. He didn’t have time to argue that he was in a fit state to drive when he _knew_ that he wasn’t, and Montparnasse suspected it. The air was thick with humidity and the bus smelled strongly of sweat. It was disgusting, but he was probably late already, and he wasn’t going to risk another episode of dizziness by walking to the bar. Montparnasse wasn’t supposed to wake up. Well, he wasn’t supposed to get up. Grantaire had been counting on him staying in bed, he wasn’t counting on him giving him an overwhelming blow-job that would end up worsening the symptoms of the dose.

Did he take more this time? He can’t remember, perhaps he drank more than usual. He was no doctor, but you needn’t be one to know the result of that equation. Booze and drugs were not a good combination. It just felt so much better after he topped it with a good bottle of vodka… or a bad bottle of vodka. It made no difference really.

But he most definitely isn’t an addict. He’s drawn a line and he’s not crossing it. He crossed it once and was lucky to live to tell the tale. He _did_ feel terrible hiding it from Montparnasse, but he couldn’t possibly tell him. It was easier to just let things be, let him believe everything was fine, things were okay now. Montparnasse was a good boyfriend. Montparnasse was the best thing that had happened to Grantaire in a long time, and he was not going to ruin it. He didn’t have to know. He wasn’t an addict, there was no reason for Montparnasse to know anything.

He reaches his destination sweaty, out of breath and in great need of fluids. He stumbles into the bar, desperately needing to feel the cold air against his skin. God how he hates summer. Eponine throws a bottle of iced-water at him and he frowns at it.

“Drink that hangover down, we’ve got work to do” she orders from behind the counter. Grantaire takes a look around. The bar is already full of people and R makes his way into the bathroom after telling her to give him a break.

She shouts something that he doesn’t catch.

He washes his hands and face, wets his hair and drinks the whole bottle down in just a couple of minutes. He’s paler than usual, and there’s a slight red colour around his eyes. His whole face screams ‘hung-over’. No wonder Montparnasse kept insisting he stayed at home. He looks like the walking dead.

There’s an insistent knock on the door that makes him jump.

“R, I need to get this done before it gets crowded. Move your ass!” Eponine orders from outside, and Grantaire knows better than to make her wait.

Turns out the upper floor of the bar has been rented and needs to be dusted ASAP because it’s already been paid for. Only problem is, there’s a lot of furniture stacked on a corner, Pierre broke his left hand on a baseball match last week so he’s limiting to serving drinks today, and the air conditioning is on the first floor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me” He curses when Eponine switches the lights on. “I assume you’ll pay me extra for this?”

Eponine snorts and pushes him inside.

“ _Will you_? Because I have a hell of a headache and it’s an oven in here” he frowns and walks up to the only window that the room has, it faces the café opposite.

Eponine is already gone by the time he turns around. He lets out a sigh and takes off his shirt before it ends up even stickier. An hour later, when loud music starts bumping through the walls, he smiles to himself as he puts the last chair on its respective place.

Then he throws himself to the floor and lets out a groan.

Oh, he should’ve called in sick.

It’s okay. He owes Eponine a lot of favours. In fact, he’s pretty sure he owes Eponine his life.

 

 

Grantaire runs to the bathroom four times that night, Eponine notices his absence the second time and frowns at him as he takes back his place at the counter. She doesn’t ask. Not out loud. Grantaire pretends to be interested in a love-affair story some dude sitting in front of him is going on about. He smiles and nods to acknowledge he’s listening to him, even though the man has been repeating the same over and over again and Grantaire already knows that this Jenny is a married woman with two kids and that she works as a nurse and he needs to take a sit because the floor is moving.

Fuck, he definitely must’ve shoot up more than his system was used to.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Eponine growls in his ear.

“Stomach-ache” he blurts out, dismissing her with a hand gesture.

The music is too loud to hear her sigh, but Grantaire knows she’s doing it.

“Did you even _eat_ anything?” she asks, and R feels like an idiot because the thought just occurs to him now. He mixed coffee with booze and drugs and he hadn’t considered that it was going to kill his stomach if he didn’t ingest something solid.

Eponine doesn’t push the matter because she’s too busy earning a living, as is Grantaire, but he knows that he’ll have to face the music sooner or later. It’s half midnight when the mood dies down and a good part of their clientele has already reached their limit. Grantaire should’ve noticed that there was no need to go get more whiskey from the back store, there was a full bottle resting on the counter next to Pierre, but he didn’t. And Eponine shoved him into the room just as he was about to make his way out.

He was expecting a scolding, shouting or even an insult, he was certainly not expecting a bloody slap.

“ _Ouch!”_ he rubs his cheek and shoots her a glare. “What the fuck, Eponine!"

“How long?” she inquires, fire in her eyes. Grantaire takes a step back.

“How long what?!” he exclaims.  

“How long have you been taking it, Grantaire, did you even stop at all?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. He’s not in the mood for this.

“Look. _I’m not high_ ” he clenches his teeth. Is he really that obvious?

“Yeah, tell that to the Marines” Eponine snorts.

Grantaire knows he shouldn’t be bothering at all, because it’s no use lying to Eponine. _She’s Eponine_.

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now” he sighs, and intends to walk out of the room, but he doesn’t make it far. Eponine snatches his arm and sends him tripping backwards.

“Are you implying that we’re going to have it anyway at some point? Because you’re fucking shooting up again?”

“No– that’s now what– “

“You’re coming down from some shit and don’t try and deny it because you’ve been wa– “

“All right!” he snaps, ruffling his hair. “I _am_ , are you happy? I’m shooting up and I’m fucking high and all you want, can we skip the part where you play mother and tell me your sermon?”

Eponine holds his gaze with watery eyes and Grantaire feels the need to throw a punch at the wall.

“Montparnasse is not gonna be happy” she states, blinking the tears away and crossing her arms on her chest. Grantaire frowns at her cold stare.

“I know, that’s why I haven’t told him” he states in an obvious tone that doesn’t seem to have an effect on his friend. Eponine just stares him down, expressionless. Grantaire shifts on his heels, uncomfortable. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“No, Grantaire” she sighs and turns around, making her way towards the door. “Who am I to get in the middle of your fucked-up relationship?”

He leaves him standing there, and Grantaire _does_ throw a punch at the wall and regrets it minutes later, when he can barely move his fingers without hissing. If there is someone who has permission to get in the middle of their fucked-up relationship, that’s Eponine.

She doesn’t talk to him for the rest of his shift, and snatches a bottle of vodka from his hand when he ends up spilling the liquid all over the counter due to the bruises forming up on his knuckles. She sends him home twenty minutes earlier after putting a couple of bucks on his good hand and ordering him to get a take-away on the way to his apartment.

“I have money” he insists, but Eponine isn’t looking his way anymore, as though he’s already gone.

 

He follows Eponine’s advice –because not following Montparnasse’s advice earlier is something he’d been regretting for the past hour– and buys some Chinese take-away on his way to the bus stop. The bus driver sends him a rather hostile look when he climbs up struggling with the cartoon of noodles on one hand and the change on the other, but Grantaire really couldn’t give a fuck about it at this hour. So he sits down and takes comfort in the fact that he’ll be home soon to Montparnasse.

But then he remembers that Montparnasse’s shift starts in just a few hours, and the thought of his boyfriend spending eight hours in a row with Eponine makes his stomach turn.

He walks into the apartment as silently as he can. The lights are out and he doesn’t even bother switching them on. He takes off his shoes before entering the room, and undresses himself before climbing up next to Montparnasse on the bed. His boyfriend shifts to their regular position with a muffled ‘R?’ that Grantaire answers with a ‘Mhm’, and he drifts into sleep with a hand on Montparnasse’s hips.


	6. Things Were Looking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emphasis on were.

Grantaire wakes up to the sound of running water. When he opens his eyes, the sunlight creeping through the curtains makes him squint. He shuts them again and groans. He’s sticky from sweat and pulls himself on his feet because staying in bed will just make him hotter. The mattress is burning.

He stumbles into the bathroom, kicks his boxers off and joins Montparnasse, who frowns but doesn’t ask, and then smiles when Grantaire snatches the soap out of his hand. Grantaire lazily washes himself and decidedly doesn’t think of Parnasse’s manhood pressing against his ass, because their shower is so fucking small that there’s barely space for him to even be standing there.  

The cold water relaxes his muscles and he fights down the sleepiness when Montparnasse starts massaging his curls with shampoo. He leans on him too eagerly and Parnasse lets out a laugh.

“Don’t fall asleep on me” he says with a hint of amusement. Grantaire groans in response.

It’s over too quickly and they’re soon drying each other off. Then Grantaire pushes Parnasse against the open door with a _thud_ and returns yesterday’s favour. This is all they have time for in the mornings; quick blowjobs and needy hands and gasping and loud orgasms.

“You’re all sweaty again” Montparnasse murmurs on Grantaire’s ear after he pulls him up by the hair and comes all over his hand, both their breaths agitated. Grantaire is achingly hard and bites down a gasp on Montparnasse’s shoulder when his boyfriend takes him in hand.

But Mont is apparently feeling rather mischievous this morning, because he’s being unbearably slow, and even though it feels awesome, Grantaire still finds it quite tortuous.

“C’mon, we don’t have time for this” Grantaire breathes out against Montparnasse’s neck. His hair is a mess and Montparnasse’s isn’t because he’s got the smoothest locks ever and he hardly every brushes them and R hates him for it. He smells of shampoo and Grantaire inhales deeply to commit the fragrance to memory.

This time the dizziness isn’t there, which Grantaire is grateful for, because the last thing he needs is to start passing out every time he gets an orgasm. Well, _nearly_ passing out. He’s probably let out most of the drug in the last hours.

Parnasse pushes Grantaire towards the shower after he’s finished, and Taire obeys, stays a couple of minutes under the cold water, and joins him in the kitchen. R’s coffee-making skills are quite dreadful, so he’s happy to let Montparnasse manage that part of their routine.

They part ways, not before Grantaire comes up with a believable story that includes a drunkard and some broken glasses as an explanation for his bruised hand. Which Montparnasse believes, because they both know bruised hands are part of the job.

 

The classes are over before he knows it. He hates how that always seems to happen. How time always seems to fly by when he’s with the kids and when the smell of fresh paint is in the air and laughter fills the silence. He doesn’t think of anything else. Or anyone. They call him “Mr. R” and Grantaire has grown quite fond of it. Sometimes he feels the need to pinch himself because it’s too bright, too good, too happy. Too surreal.

But then it’s over and everything suddenly looks darker again, when he steps out of the classroom. And as he makes his way home. But it’s okay, he’ll be here tomorrow, and perhaps he’ll succeed in making them smile tomorrow again.

On Fridays it’s worse. He’s got two free days and more often than not, it feels too long. And now it’s become a habit, to get some dust to make it through the weekend. It’s not a convenient time, because he and Montparnasse spend more time together on weekends, but it’s been working so far. He just needs to be careful when measuring the dose that he takes. Parnasse isn’t gonna let it slip again. That’s how it started last time. This time, no excuse is going to fool him.

But today’s fine. Today’s Monday, after all. And Friday is far away. He’ll be fine. Matthew’s laughter is still ringing in his head, and Linda’s smile and Dorothy’s bright blue cheeks that he had to wipe with a damp cloth in a hurry because her mother was waiting for her outside and Grantaire had been too caught up in Gabriel’s drawing to notice there was a paint war going on behind his back.

He lets out a laugh.

But the happy thoughts come to a halt when Grantaire’s phone buzzes in his pocket. The fact that it’s a text, and it’s from Eponine, manages to turn his stomach in a second. Because Eponine never texts if she can call, and the last time she texted him was to inform him that she was at the ER with Montparnasse, who had a concussion because some idiot had broken a bottle on his head.

He lets out a relieved sigh at the sight of only four words, odd as they were:

_[16:41 From: Eponine] Take the day off._

He’s quick to type back:

_[16:41 To: Eponine] y wth happnd_

He clutches his backpack with one hand and dials Eponine’s number after thirty seconds of no response, hurrying in his way to the bus stop. She doesn’t pick up and that only results in Grantaire getting worried looks from an old lady sitting next to him, as he starts to hyperventilate. Why did he have to stay home? Was Montparnasse okay? Had she told him? Had he cracked her? Did he know he was consuming again? Shit, he was so screwed.

_[17:07 To: Eponine] EPONINE WHAT HAPPENED_

After staring blankly at his phone for thirty more seconds, he dials his boyfriend’s number. His heart-rate considerably high, his teeth biting at his lower lip.

Montparnasse doesn’t pick up either and Grantaire curses under his breath and the old lady to his right is probably saying something derogatory about _the youngsters these days_ that Grantaire doesn’t care about and he rushes to the front of the bus and asks the driver to pull over because he needs to get off. The mid-aged man refuses, saying the next stop isn’t until four more blocks, and Grantaire starts gagging.

He pulls up.

Grantaire starts running on the opposite way, to the Musain.

And it’s probably not a good idea, because it’s the middle of summer, and Grantaire isn’t friends with summer. He’s impatiently waiting at a crosswalk when his phone buzzes in his hand. He’s cursing at Eponine as soon as the phone’s against his ear.

“What the fuck happened?”

“ _Calm down_ ” she says with a tone that is so not-Eponine. Grantaire doesn’t calm down.

“Where’s Montparnasse? He’s not answering, what happened?”

“ _He’s just- R, everything’s fine. Just stay home, he’ll be there soon enough_ ”

“Like hell, you’re gonna tell me what the fuck- Why are you whispering?”

“ _I’m not-_ “ a sigh. “ _I can’t talk right now. Just don’t come in today_ ”

“No- Eponine- I swear if you hang up-“

She does.

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”

He’s a mess by the time he makes it home. Well, he’s always a mess. A sweaty, scruffy, smelling mess. The door is open, and he stumbles his way inside the apartment, leaving the backpack on the floor with a shaking breath.

“Mont?” he calls, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Bathroom” comes the answer.

Grantaire finds Montparnasse pressing red-stained toilet-paper against his nostrils. There’s a reddish bruise forming up on his left cheek, and he doesn’t turn to look at Grantaire when he makes his way into the room.

Grantaire opens his mouth to say something. What, he doesn’t know.

So he closes it.

Montparnasse isn’t looking at him. That’s never a good sign. Grantaire keeps his distance, because he knows better than to step into his personal space when he’s edgy. Does he know? How much does he know? Eponine would’ve given him a heads-up. She surely wouldn’t send him into the lion’s den just like that, would she?

Well, she was Eponine.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you” Parnasse breaks the silence, and Grantaire lets out the air he’d been holding. They’re facing each other now, Montparnasse eyeing him from head to toe. “Ran a marathon?” he smiles.

It isn’t a genuine smile, though, and Grantaire steps closer when he stops sensing the hostility. All right, Montparnasse is really tense and he clenches his jaw every two seconds, but he’s not mad at Grantaire.

“What happened?”

Parnasse shrugs.

“Hit some guy, he hit back, there was blood, Eponine sent me home.”

Yeah, right.

“You have worked with worse injuries, and Eponine has apparently sent _me_ home too before I even start my shift. Now, who did you punch, exactly? The president?”

Montparnasse lets out a laugh. It’s not a real laugh, either, and Grantaire is starting to feel worried. There’s something that’s not being told.

“Did you get fired?” he tries.

“What? No!”

“ _Montparnasse_ …” Grantaire warns. Parnasse elbows his way out of the bathroom and Grantaire catches up before he reaches the kitchen.

“I didn’t get fired, okay?”

“Well then _what exactly_ did you do?”

“Why do you think it was me who started it?” Montparnasse retorts, raising his voice now, and Grantaire takes a step back.

“Well, here between us, you aren’t exactly the most peaceful of guys” he shouts back.

“Well look who’s talking!” Montparnasse gestures toward him exaggeratedly. Grantaire’s had enough.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” He walks past his boyfriend and snatches the motorbike’s keys from the counter. If Montparnasse isn’t telling him, whatever stupid problem he got himself into this time, then Eponine’s gonna have to spill the beans.

“Where are you going?!”

“Musain.”

“ _DON’T-! All right! Fine! Get back here!”_

Grantaire turns around, closing the door and frowning at Montparnasse, who still has one hand against his nose, and the other one rubbing his eyes.

Grantaire needs answers, because he’s growing more and more concerned with every minute that goes by. It’s not like Montparnasse to hide things, -if anything, he’d be gloating about his boxing skills being finally useful- and it’s not like Eponine to whisper through the fucking phone.

He approaches Montparnasse, who still hasn’t met his eyes, and crosses both arms on his chest, waiting for the revelation.

And it comes in form of a name.

Only one word.

Grantaire remembers how everything was fine an hour ago, how he thought he’d be able to live through the week like he always did. He had it controlled.

 _Had_. Past tense.

“Courfeyrac” Montparnasse almost growls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos! <3<3 Hope you enjoyed this chapter(:


	7. Everything Is Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Except for when it isn't.

Parnasse is speaking. And Grantaire isn’t listening. But it isn’t on purpose, really, his ears seem to have disconnected and for some reason, even though he can see Montparnasse’s lips moving, there’s no sound coming out.

And this is clearly making the other man uneasy, because he approaches immediately after a good couple of seconds have passed and Grantaire is still standing there like a statue and clearly not answering some sort of question that’d been asked.

“Are you all right?” was the question.

This time Grantaire hears it.

He clears his throat.

He’s all right. His hands want to shake but he’s turned them into fists to prevent it from happening because _he can’t act like this in front of Montparnasse!_

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine- Just-“ he takes a deep breath. Oh god, why is Courfeyrac back? Why did he have to- why couldn’t he just stay where he was?

“Look. You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to. I’ll make sure he doesn’t return to The Musain, I don’t care if I have to pay Eponine myself, if you-“

“What do you mean ‘pay’?” Grantaire interrupts the shower of words. Montparnasse is either talking too quickly or Grantaire’s yet not recovered from the shock. Probably the latter. “Pay for what?” he blurts out, making his way to the kitchen.

Montparnasse doesn’t answer, but Grantaire doesn’t call him on it, because he’s already forgotten he just made a question. He opens every cabinet in search for a bottle of anything that can calm his nerves down.

He doesn’t notice he’s doing it either, until he spots Montparnasse following his every move with the corner of his eye. He expects to see him frowning in disapproval, but all he sees is a furrowed brow and a look of worry.

What’s the point in trying to hide it? Montparnasse can read him like a book. But that’s something good, because just as he understands the struggle, he also knows how to make it better. He’s done it before. It’s all right, isn’t it? Everything’s fine, Montparnasse’s here, and he’s not going anywhere, and he’s going to help him. He’s not leaving like Courfeyrac did. He won’t leave him to his own devices. He knows how to help, he’ll help.

“It’s fine, Grantaire, you don’t need to apologize” Montparnasse is rubbing circles on his back, and Grantaire feels _so_ stupid because had he been apologizing? He’s got no idea. Have words been coming out of his mouth?

What a wreck Courfeyrac had made of him in just a couple of minutes. How can he do this? After four years, how does he fucking manage to do it? No, it’s not Courf’s fault. _Courfeyrac_. Courfeyrac is his name. He’s not Courf, not for him, not anymore.

It’s all on Grantaire. _Grantaire_ should be over him, _Grantaire_ should’ve been over him a long time ago. He shouldn’t be feeling nauseous on the floor, he shouldn’t be feeling like shit while Montparnasse sits beside him. Montparnasse doesn’t deserve this.

Taking in a shaky breath, he turns to his boyfriend.

“He punched you back?” he inquires, to make conversation. Anything not to succumb.

Montparnasse lets out a snort.

“I didn’t punch _him_.” He lifts a hand a touches his bruised cheek. He winces. Grantaire fixes his stare on the floor, wanting to know, but not wanting to ask. He wants to know _so much_. He wishes he didn’t, but he can’t help it. What has Courf been up to? Has he graduated? Has he changed his hair-style? Has he learnt French? Has he missed him? Has he thought about him? Has he thought about him every day, has he felt the slightest desire to see him, to hug him, to hear his voice? Has he drunk himself to sleep because they’re miles away? Has he ended up in the hospital after getting involved in fights while inebriated? Has he taken drugs to make the pain stop, when the alcohol became useless? Has he been on the verge of dying, both literally and metaphorically, because he found it incredibly painful to live without him?

“I punched his-“ Montparnasse cut himself in the middle of the sentence, looking at R. Whatever he is about to say, dies in his mouth, because the sight before him, the sight of Grantaire slowly falling apart, silently eating himself alive, is a sight that he has seen before, and is not willing to let happen again.

He moves to keel in front of his boyfriend, and when Grantaire stares at him with that look, a look that Montparnasse hadn’t seen for a long time, he makes up his mind.

“Grantaire” he calls him, because even though R is staring right at him, he’s not sure till what point he’s actually _here_ with him. “Hey” he calls again, and Grantaire blinks. Montparnasse shows him a kind smile and offers him a hand. Grantaire stands up with him. “Wanna go for a ride?”

Grantaire seems to be snapped back to reality, then. He shakes his head.

“Look at me, all fucking pathetic”

Montparnasse shrugs.

“Look at me, all fucking bruised”

Grantaire laughs and goes for a hug. Montparnasse squeezes him until Grantaire actually complains about his bones being crushed.

“Shit, you bled over my shirt!” R exclaims when he takes a step back, and watches in disbelief as Montparnasse wipes his still-bleeding nose on his chest, like a cat rubbing against someone’s leg. “Dude!” Grantaire bursts out laughing, his shirt now stained red.

“Hey, I am bleeding for you, literally, so suck it up”

“Oh I’m gonna suck it up” Grantaire warns, taking off his shirt. Montparnasse soon finds himself being kissed against the refrigerator. His nose is still bleeding, and when Grantaire draws back to take a breath, he frowns. “Is this some kind of vampire kink?”

Grantaire bursts out laughing again, and Montparnasse smiles to himself, allows his muscles to relax. That’s it, that’s more like the R he knows and loves.

* * * 

Grantaire leaves the school building behind as he makes his way to the bus stop, his backpack heavier than normal on his back, even though it contains the same stuff as always. Today the air is fraught with wetness, and it’s difficult to breathe. Or perhaps his lungs just don’t feel like functioning properly today. He’s exhausted, and is starting to regret last night’s boxing session with Parnasse with every second that passes by.

He didn’t get a wink of sleep, despite being exhausted, and he’s got Courfeyrac to thank for it. Courfeyrac, who didn’t leave his thoughts for a moment during the night. That, on top of the fact that he’s accustomed to being awake at night, serving drinks, putting up with loud music and drunk customers. It just felt so unsettling, being on his bed. His routine had changed and it didn’t feel right.

The bus is here, and he climbs up absent-mindedly. He absent-mindedly pays the driver before he gets to his seat, and absent-mindedly stands up and goes to the back and gets off four blocks away from their apartment block. Today is unbearably hot, and there isn’t a single cloud on the sky, yet it feels grim and grey.

He dumps the backpack on the floor and heads for the bathroom, and the rest of the afternoon sort of flies away. Montparnasse is home in time, he is dressed and ready to leave. He offers to drive him, for the third time. Grantaire turns the offer down. They’ve talked about this. In fact, there was a lot of boxing and talking last night, but now Grantaire is feeling anxious again and he really wishes he could bring Montparnasse along.

He doesn’t admit it though, because the second he admits he can’t do this alone, it’s the second he believes it, and the second Montparnasse will refuse to leave his side. He can’t depend on Montparnasse for this. His boyfriend is edgy already, he hasn’t slept for hours, and Grantaire won’t take the risk. The Thenardiers can only endure so much. They are apparently very pleased with their new acquisition, and they’re not going to spare Montparnasse if he blows this. Grantaire doesn’t know how much they’re charging Courfeyrac and “company” for renting the top floor, but he hopes they don’t last long.

After all, this summer is being a little bit of an asshole, and no human can survive that place without proper air-conditioning. He’s counting on it. They’ll get fed up and they’ll leave.

“Call me if anything happens” Montparnasse says as Grantaire hops onto the bike. “In fact, just call me.”

“I’ll be fine.” Grantaire nods and puts on the helmet. “Get some sleep.” he laughs, as the engine bursts to life.

“Call me” Montparnasse mouths before Grantaire drives away. His boyfriend’s still standing outside the building by the time he turns the corner.

His stomach feels funny and he’s starting to regret having eaten anything. The feeling intensifies with every traffic light he leaves behind, and when he’s only one block away from the Musain, he stops the bike in the middle of the road before he notices he’s doing it.

He gets off the bike, takes off the helmet and places it on the seat. Then, he proceeds to take a deep breath and run his shaky hands through his hair.

“You weak _motherfucker_ ” he curses. What is he so afraid of? He’s acting like a fucking idiot, what the fuck is he so afraid of?! “Fuck, Grantaire, you’re so pathetic”. This was no way to go about it. Courfeyrac left, Courfeyrac left him and didn’t return. He’d left for France and he thought he had the right to just comeback out of the blue, after four fucking years, to fucking fuck his life up just like that?

No, he wasn’t gonna let that happen. He was going to fucking get on that bike, ride to The Musain, work his shift, and Courfeyrac could fucking suck it up. He can do this, it’s been four years, he’s not the same Grantaire that Courfeyrac knows. Courfeyrac doesn’t know him. Courfeyrac doesn’t know him.

When his phone buzzes on his jean’s pocket, he startles and nearly knocks the helmet to the floor. When he pulls it out and reads his boyfriend’s name on the screen, he smiles. Well, it seems Montparnasse couldn’t deal with the thrill either.

“I’m still alive” he answers.

Montparnasse ignores the joke.

“ _Where are you?_ ”

Grantaire frowns and turns around.

“ _Oh my god,_ Montparnasse, did you actually follow me here?”

“Don’t be stupid. I-I forgot to tell you something” comes the answer. Okay, stammering Montparnasse is not a normal Montparnasse.

Grantaire waits for it, waits for silly and cute words of reassurance, something like a quote from The Notebook or some funny Montparnasse trash, but his boyfriend is silent.

“Well, yes, whenever you want” he says, playing it cool. The stomach-ache is a little more bearable now that he’s hearing Mont’s voice, like he’s again inside his comfort zone, but he knows that the feeling will be over when he hangs up.

“ _Don’t- don’t… I just didn’t want you to- I wanted to tell you but-_ “

“Spill it out Montparnasse, for god’s sake”

“ _Well, Courfeyrac is- he’s most probably-_ “

And his phone’s on the ground, from one moment to another, courtesy of that college kid who was too busy running like there’s no tomorrow to even spare him an apology. Grantaire lets out a very long breath. The anxiety is starting to kick in again.

He picks up the phone and stares at its cracked screen for a whole minute before hopping back on the bike.

“Let’s get this over with” he grits his teeth and puts the helmet back. He’s at The Musain in less than thirty seconds, and bursts in noisily, as always. It’s already crowded, as always. He makes his way over to the counter, as always. He’s frozen in place, not as always. He can hear voices coming from the top floor.

Eponine says something to Pierre that Grantaire should’ve understood, because she is right next to him, but he’s not understanding any of it and he wonders if he’s suddenly forgotten how to speak English.

“Okay, bathroom with you, _now_ ”

And she’s dragging him into the ladies’ bathroom ten seconds later. R is too far gone to come up with a witty comment about it.

“I thought I could do this. I was one block away, I thought I’d just get it over with. I thought I could do it and now I’m here and I want to leave can I leave? I’ll go get another job I thought I could do this but I can’t Eponine I’m sorry I’ve got to-“

Slap.

Then silence.

“Thank you” he mouths.

Eponine smiles. “Listen up. This guy has no right to make you feel like this, do you understand me?”

Grantaire nods. Then shakes his head.

“Okay, yes, yes…”

“He’s just a dude, okay? And he’s got no control over you. You are fucking twenty-nine years old, and you have your life and he’s not going to just appear after four years and turn it all upside-down, are we clear?”

“Yes” he answers automatically.

“Grantaire, you’re not alone, you have me, and you have Montparnasse.”

“Yes”

“You’re gonna go out there, climb up those stairs, and if you’re not back in five minutes I’ll come and get your ass back down. Okay?”

“Okay”

Eponine sighs and pushes one of his curly locks out of his face.

“I’m fine” Grantaire says.

“You’re fine” Eponine repeats, and then she gives his butt a slap when he turns around and makes for the door.

“Hey, okay, don’t take advantage of my weak state of mind to satisfy your carnal wishes.” He says, and Eponine bursts out laughing. She goes back to the counter and Grantaire counts till ten before he climbs up the stairs, the air getting hotter with every step, the sound of mixed conversations making its way to his ears.

 _French_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh, I'm sorry for leaving it there, what can I say? I'm a bad person~ Comments are appreciated(:


	8. The Trembling Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hole awaits below.

Grantaire knew that he was fucked up. He’d inherited his drinking habits from his father, and his grim view of the world from his mother. He _knew_ he was fucked up, up to a point. But at least he wasn’t alone. _They_ were fucked up. Together. That is, until he made the grave mistake of trusting too much, thinking they’d understand, thinking they were on the same boat, and that was the moment where it was never _them_ again. It was just him.

With a punch, and some disgusting words spit on his face, he’d left. He left because he knew it wasn’t something he could change, and as fucked up as he was, he wasn’t willing to endure any physical torture because of it. He wasn’t _that_ fucked up. He still had some sense in him, he wasn’t gonna end up an abuse victim. He wasn’t gonna end up cutting himself or hanging himself.

The fact that he hadn’t done it didn’t mean he hadn’t thought of it, though. In fact, it’d been such a recurrent thought that it had somehow stopped being that bad after some time. It was like a faithful companion. Of course, until Courfeyrac came into the picture.

Grantaire didn’t realize it, at first. How Courfeyrac, with his light and his laughter seemed to be the perfect repellent for his dark thoughts. But they’d crept back, out of whatever distant part of his mind they’d locked themselves in. They’d crept back in such an unexpected and merciless way that Grantaire didn’t even entertain the possibility of fighting them. He just fell to his knees, and gave in. He’d hit rock bottom and he wasn’t strong enough to climb back up. When had he ever been strong?

He’d been a fool to think Courfeyrac had somehow managed to exterminate that part of him. Courfeyrac had just scared it away. And when Courfeyrac left, it came back with full force, and even though Grantaire somehow anticipated it, he still couldn’t do much to stop it. He’d thought he’d be able to manage it. He thought that the memories would somehow work as a wall between his clean mind and the dump where all his self-destructive thoughts were left in. Even if Courfeyrac had left, he thought he’d have some time to prepare, to assemble his weapons, to come up with a coping plan. He never had time. The wall just fell apart without previous warning, and he was knocked down and couldn’t get up.

So he just kept digging. If he couldn’t go up, there was only one way to escape, and it was going down. That was basic maths, wasn’t it? But he reached a dead end, at some point. He collapsed. He couldn’t dig anymore, he’d dug enough. So he just sat, content, comfortable in his own misery. _Leave me here, I’m fine here_. It was dark, the light was long gone. Nevertheless, he learnt that the light was not his only saviour. There were other things, other ways of getting out. Montparnasse wasn’t light, he was not Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac had gone away and he’d taken the light with him. But Montparnasse threw a rope, pulled him up. And for that Grantaire was angry, at the beginning. He was well where he was, it was so much easier to let the darkness take over, let it win, do not fight it. It took no effort.

But Montparnasse wasn’t happy with it. So even though Grantaire ran towards the hole with every chance that he got, Montparnasse caught him in time. He wouldn’t let him jump back in. And if one day he was too careless to let Grantaire have his own way, if he one day came back to him and found him crawled up in the hole, he’d throw the rope down again. Pull him up again. And Grantaire found that the hole wasn’t so deep after some time. It grew smaller every day, even if he fell back in, it really took no effort to get out. There was no need for a rope, just a hand.

Montparnasse kept him in check. It was the stable ground on which Grantaire walked. But the hole was still there, it wasn’t gone, and Grantaire knew it’d never be gone. It’d always be there, waiting to strike him, to jump out of his hideaway, wrap his arms around him and push him back in, with astonishing and breathless force.

Grantaire relied too much in other people, he couldn’t change that part of him, and it’s what was killing him. He wasn’t strong enough to build his own ground, throw up his own rope, conjure up his own light. So he knew it’d only be a matter of time until everything fell apart again. It’d be one word from Montparnasse, one action, and he’d be back in, deep. Helpless and weak and unable to escape.

Montparnasse reinforced the ground every day, and although Grantaire took a step back with every step that Montparnasse took towards him, there was a balance, he was never too far from Parnasse. He was at hand reach, if the ground collapsed, he’d just have to grab onto him in order not to fall.

It was ironic, then, that the same light that would’ve prevented him from succumbing under the weight of his own thoughts, was the same light that was making the ground tremble. It was threatening to take him down, him, and Montparnasse as well. Because it didn’t matter how strong Parnasse stood his ground, there was only so much he could endure. And an earthquake wasn’t on that list. It wasn’t on the list of things he could fight. There was no drill to be put in action, no previous instructions to be followed. Grantaire would go down, and Montparnasse would go down with him.

* * *

 

Grantaire’s been standing at the top of the stairs for twenty seconds straight. He knows, because he’s been counting them in his mind. Everybody is too caught up in their own conversations to notice him, and that gives him enough time to assess the danger. Nobody seems ready to pull out their guns, but he knows there’s only one person he needs to worry about. Only that person’s gun. That’s the gun his vest isn’t bulletproof for.

When Courfeyrac looks up from the furthest table next to the window, Grantaire starts to think that whether they carry guns or not, he’s going to be taken down anyway. He isn’t even looking his way, he’s talking to somebody in front of him, looking down at papers spread out on the table, pointing at them and shaking his head.

His hair is longer and it really is ridiculous, but he looks taller and more built-up. Courfeyrac had never shown any interest in sports before. That’s the first thing Grantaire notices about him, his physical language and appearance. There’s a new air about him, something that hadn’t been there before, but he can’t quite put his finger on it, and he wonders till what point this Courfeyrac is the same Courfeyrac that he knew, and his stomach turns.

He does know something, though, and that is Courfeyrac has moved on, he’s climbed up the ladder. Grantaire hasn’t really advanced much. He’d been too busy trying not to trip back, he’d been too busy keeping himself in the same place, making sure he wouldn’t fall face down if he took a step forward. He knows then, Courfeyrac has taken many steps forward, he’s already out of reach –as he ever was–, and he wonders how he’ll react when he knows that Grantaire is still in the same place where he left him. He’s probably expecting it.

But Courfeyrac doesn’t know how much effort it’s taken him to stay where he is. He doesn’t know that Grantaire has fought tooth and claw to hold onto the ladder. Courfeyrac has no idea that he’s the one who kicked him into oblivion. He has no idea. And Grantaire intends to keep it that way.

Someone must’ve noticed him standing there, he thinks, because Courfeyrac is now looking his way, mouth opened, stopped in the middle of a sentence. He doesn’t know if the conversations have really died down, or if his ears are playing a trick on him. There’s a zooming noise that is starting to increase with every step that Courfeyrac takes towards him, and Grantaire fears he’s not going to be able to hear anything else if he doesn’t put some distance between them.

But he’s pinned to the ground, he can’t move, and his throat is dry and Courfeyrac is in front of him.

And he hears his voice, clear and pure and cruel and staggering:

“Taire” he greets. And Grantaire knows that this means everybody’s shut up, because his ears are working perfectly.

 _Courf_. He wants to say. He wants to mean it.

“Hey” he answers instead, unmoving, and cold. Courfeyrac bits his lip and Grantaire feels light headed. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, and Courfeyrac apparently doesn’t know either, because someone comes to the rescue.

“You must be Grantaire!” the guy exclaims, with a French accent and it’s so cheerful that it nearly makes Grantaire shake his head. “Marius Pontmercy” he smiles to Grantaire, and R feels the impulse to frown and ask him to lower up his level of happiness because it’s literally annoying, but there’s a blond chick next to him then, pulling him back as if reading Grantaire’s thoughts.

“We’re so glad to finally meet you, I'm Cosette” she says, extending an arm for him to shake.

He shakes it, wearing the usual smile he puts on when a customer’s ranting on about their personal problems and he’s got to play it cool and pretend he gives a shit about it, as if he didn’t have enough of a screwed-up life himself.

“Right…” he says, and watches as the smile in Cosette’s face dies down a little bit. Grantaire’s heart nearly jumps out of his chest when he feels Courfeyrac’s arm closing around his right wrist.

He looks back at him, and finds him staring at his colourful tattoos.

“Wow, you- those are awesome, did you design them?”

Grantaire is too caught up in the warmth of Courfeyrac’s arm, he doesn’t answer instantly. He needs to stop the physical contact, he needs to stop it now, because he’s already feeling the need for more.

He takes a step back, and knows by Courfeyrac’s facial expression, that he won’t be trying any more of that again.

“No, not really” he blurts out. He’s not going to feel guilty about it, no matter how hurt Courfeyrac seems to be. He doesn’t have the right to be hurt. He doesn’t have the right to touch him and make him feel like that, make him go back in time. He’s been through a lot trying to leave that behind, and Courfeyrac shouldn’t have the right to crush all his progress in the blink of an eye. He really should be stronger than this. A touch and he’s already down?

Courfeyrac opens his mouth, is about to say something, an apology, something Grantaire doesn’t want to hear, but Combeferre appears behind him, and Grantaire is pretty sure he’s never been grateful for Combeferre’s presence, ever. But today is the exception.

“Long time no see, Grantaire” the corner of his mouth perches up a bit, and if Grantaire notices a small cut below his eye, he doesn’t comment on it.

“I’m sure you remember Ferre?” Courfeyrac chimes in after a couple of seconds of silence, and Grantaire can almost physically feel the awkwardness in the air.

“Oh yeah, of course I remember _Ferre_ ” he answers, not even managing a smile this time. Combeferre is staring daggers in his direction and Grantaire needs to leave at this very moment because Combeferre puts his arm around Courfeyrac's shoulders and he knows he’s doing it on purpose.

Courfeyrac seems to shrink, but he doesn’t look uncomfortable in the slightest. There’s that look again, something akin to an apology, and R puts two and two together then. And turns around.

“Well, gotta go back to my duties” he says, talking over something Courfeyrac just mumbled.

He nearly falls over going down the stairs. The noise engulfs him, conversations, and music, and glasses and laughter and some cheering coming from the corner with the billiard. Eponine sends him a knowing look when he approaches. He shakes his head and stands next to Pierre.

“Just keep me busy” he tells her.

So that’s what Montparnasse had been afraid of telling him.

Courfeyrac coming back from France, he could try to survive. But Courfeyrac coming back from France, with Combeferre as a boyfriend?

He’s not surprised. He’s angry. Courfeyrac has a boyfriend.

Not a girlfriend.

“Grantaire” Eponine warns, and R looks down to see he’s spilling the vodka out of the glass. He slams the bottle down and Pierre startles next to him. “Grantaire” Eponine calls for him again, he turns around and clenches his jaw.

Then he’s being drawn to the ladies' bathroom again, tripping over his own feet. Eponine shushes the blond out of the room and closes the door behind her. Grantaire wonders if these trips to the bathroom will become a recurrent habit.

“That little piece of shit never told me he was fucking gay” he spits out. “He never said a thing! He knew I was- Why did he hide it? Was he scared I was gonna… I wasn’t gonna do anything to force-!”

“Grantaire!” Eponine interrupted.

“Don’t!” he snarls back. “I’m not gonna fucking chill, fucking kick him out right now! I don’t wanna see his face I don’t wanna have him near, screw him and his French fucking friends!”

“I can’t kick them out, you know that”

“Oh, screw you and your greedy disgusting parents Eponine”

“Hey, watch your mouth…”

Grantaire takes a step towards her, menacing. Eponine doesn’t flinch.

“You failed to mention he was fucking dating that idiot” he accuses her through clenched teeth.

“What was the point in mentioning it?”

“Oh, no, it’s totally an insignificant detail. Courfeyrac’s gay, why would that matter IN THE SLIGHTEST?!”

“Stop shouting! DO YOU WANT THEM TO HEAR YOU OUT THERE?!”

“YES, THEY CAN FUCKING HEAR ME, I DON’T GIVE A SHIT!”

Eponine takes out her phone and Grantaire snatches it out of her hand.

“You’re not calling him.”

“Give it back” she inquires, serious, but Grantaire is too angry to be intimidated. He takes out the battery and throws the phone at her.

“You’re not gonna call him, and you’re gonna go out there and tell that little liar, motherfucking French wanna-be that he better find another place to hold his stupid meeting, or I’m gonna go punch the shit out of each and every one of them”

Eponine sighs and runs a hand through her face.

“Grantaire, you’re not making any sense. You’re not going to do that.”

“ _Watch me_ ” he says, making his way towards the door.

Eponine snaps, then, and tries to hold him back. He shrugs her off.

“Grantaire!”

R pushes people out of the way, ignores insults being thrown at him, and shakes Eponine’s hand off his shoulder.

“Grantaire!”

She manages to hold him back before he reaches the stairs, with Pierre’s help. Pierre, who doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, but upon seeing his co-worker out of himself ran to the rescue, shoving Eponine out of the way gently and pulling Grantaire back and out of The Musain with the help of a fellow customer. Pierre still has a broken arm, and that is something Grantaire doesn’t remember when he pushes him against the wall and punches him in the face.

Pierre falls to the ground, product of the unexpected hit, and Eponine jumps in right then, stopping Grantaire from going for a kick. She’s got his helmet on one hand, and throws it at him without warning. It hits Grantaire hard in the chest.

“Don’t comeback until you’ve calmed the fuck down, unless you want to lose your job.” She states, coldly, turning around and helping Pierre up. The customer is still behind him, waiting to restrain him should he lose his temper again.

Grantaire is panting and his hand hurts. He throws the helmet against the wall, pieces of plastic shattering and flying everywhere. Eponine and Pierre are already back in, and R spits out a “fuck off” to the customer before hoping on the bike and riding off.

 

Jason smiles when he pulls over. He smiles, of course he smiles, the motherfucker. Grantaire being here on a Tuesday means that something’s up. And it’s not that he cares what _is_ up, he couldn’t care less, really, but it’s just the normal greeting.

“Give me everything” he puts the money on Jason’s hand and follows him inside the back store of the bookshop.

“Someone’s needy” his camel comments as he hands him a bag with dust in it, along with a syringe, a spoon and a lighter.

“Your mother’s needy” Grantaire retorts, gaining a laugh from Jason’s brother, Jack, who’s sitting at the back, weighing some black bags on a scale. Grantaire looks around, and makes for a chair after asking if he can hang around.

“Actually, no” Jason retorts.

“Piss off” Grantaire’s hand are itching in anticipation, he opens the bag with the dust and puts some on the spoon.

“Dude, don’t pour it on the floor” Jason says, sounding bored. Grantaire knows he’s quite a sight. All moody and sweaty and desperate. Jason is watching him with his arms crossed, from the opposite wall. Amused.

“Fuck” Grantaire mouths when the spoon doesn’t stop moving. He’s trembling. “Fuck, _shit_ ” the dust is on his pants now, and when he takes out the lighter and it doesn’t light up after five tries, he throws it at the wall. Jack looks up from the scale now. Looks at Grantaire and then at his brother, who’s laughing in the corner.

The younger boy stands up, walks up to Grantaire and helps him out.

Grantaire could kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way to make up for the cliffhanger, aye?  
> Comments are appreciated, as always (:


	9. The Clouds Up Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is high, Eponine is troubled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am no expert in drugs, but I've done my research so hopefully this isn't too disastrous.

Grantaire wakes up dizzy, disoriented, hot, and with a sore neck. He looks up, to where the shadow is staring down at him, and frowns. The shadow is moving, and speaking, but Grantaire doesn’t understand what it’s saying, it sounds as though he’s underwater, and he sits up alarmed, looking around, he’s not underwater, he’s not drowning.

“-gonna draw you out myself, come on” the shadow isn’t happy, and Grantaire struggles to stand up. He blinks a few times and then there’s Jason. The shadow is Jason, and he’s not in a friendly mood. “fuck’s sake, are you deaf?” he asks, and takes a step towards Grantaire. When he gives him a slap, R's ears unclog. “Out with ya, take your toys too” he puts a bag to Grantaire’s chest, and Grantaire looks down, confused. He’s twenty-nine years old, he doesn’t play with toys. “Jack!” Jason exclaims, and it startles Grantaire so, that he has to hold onto Jason to prevent a nasty fall. “Take this dickhead outside, will ya?”

“Whadya give tme?” Grantaire mumbles. He feels like he’s hovering, it feels good. Too good.

Jack appears to escort him outside. And they’re outside, from one moment to another, and Grantaire is reminding himself that teleportation isn’t real. Right?

“Right.” Jack answers. “Where are you going?”

Grantaire stares at the younger boy.

“I’m right here, I ain’t going anywhere” he answers, slurry words. He winces in discomfort and looks down at his clothes. He’s wearing trousers? No wonder he feels like he’s in an oven. Jack snaps his hands from his flyer and Grantaire looks at him with an offended look.

“You’re not stripping in the middle of the street, fucking get your shit together” Jack snaps at him, and Grantaire finds him more Jason-ish than ever. He knows Jason and Jack are brothers, but Jack’d always been the patient one, the kind one, and Jason the asshole one.

“Agreed” Jack laughs.

Grantaire is too hot and when he tries to take his sweatshirt off, Jack pushes him toward Montparnasse’s motorcycle and he trips over his own feet. He panics for a moment. Is Montparnasse here? Oh boy, he’s gonna beat Jack and Jason to death if he finds out they’ve been giving him drugs again.

“Your boyfriend’s not here” Jack explains, after Grantaire’s told him to run the fuck off before he’s dead meat. “Now get your ass on that motorbike, I ain’t got all fucking day.”

Grantaire sees Jason again, pointing at him and ready to punch him if he makes another stupid comment about Montparnasse or attempts to take his clothes off. Grantaire doesn’t want to be punched, so he gets on the motorbike.

Jack hops in front, and Grantaire moves as far from him as he can manage. Which isn’t much. God, Jack is hot, as in, _literally_ –the boy is like sixteen, thank you very much– and Grantaire needs air, needs cold.

Jack mumbles something about mistakes and too much angel dust before driving off. Grantaire feels like he can breathe again.

* * *

Eponine has lost count of how many times she’s looked into the door’s direction in the last hour. Fuck, she’s going to have Grantaire’s head for losing his temper like that. She’s been dealing with Courfeyrac ever since her best friend drove off like he was chasing the devil. And though Eponine is quite a persevering person, she reached a point in which she couldn’t answer any more questions: “ _No, I don’t know why he left. No, I have no idea when he’ll be back- yes I’m his boss but- I’m not his mother Courfeyrac_ ”. So she’d just sent him back up promising she’d let him know when R was back. Which was, obviously, an utter lie.

Because Grantaire was very likely to turn up either a) high as a fucking kite, or b) bleeding to death and possibly drunk. And Eponine wasn’t willing to let Courfeyrac see him in that state. That is, _if_ Grantaire came back at all. _If_ he hadn’t already passed out somewhere.

The truth is, she’d been fighting the urge to call Montparnasse and tell him that no, Grantaire wasn’t incredibly busy and that was the reason why he couldn’t come to answer the phone, the line phone, because his was broken and hers, _out of battery_. No, Grantaire wasn’t totally fine, he wasn’t totally unaffected by seeing Courfeyrac tonight, he wasn’t coping better than they’d expected, he wasn’t just being a great co-worker, and today was not possibly the busiest day the Musain had had in years, god knows why. Grantaire was gone, and Eponine had no way to reach him.

However, she was between a rock and a hard place. He couldn’t let Montparnasse know, either. She should, because what was exactly the reason for her silence? Why was she covering up for him? If there was someone who should know Grantaire was consuming again, that was Montparnasse. Montparnasse knew how to fix that problem, Eponine didn’t. Adding wood to the fire, is what she was doing. She was as much a culprit as Grantaire, really. Should Montparnasse find out –and find out he would, sooner or later– Eponine wasn’t going to get out of it easily.

But that wasn’t important. Grantaire was important, and Grantaire’s well-being. So she really should tell. She should tell someone before it was too late and Grantaire crossed the bridge and left them both behind with no means to follow after him. She should help while she could. Eponine knew that Grantaire wasn’t going to go into rehab, he wasn’t going to go to a clinic or a recovery centre to ‘ _sit like an idiot to talk about my fucking problems like they’re going to fix themselves_ ’. That’s not what had helped him last time, and Eponine knew it.

Eponine _knew_ how to help, but she was afraid it wouldn’t work this time. Because Courfeyrac was here, and Montparnasse wouldn’t be able to reach Grantaire if Courfeyrac was pushing him further and further every second. Courfeyrac hadn’t been here last time, after all. And Grantaire didn’t know Courfeyrac was gay, and Grantaire didn’t know that Courfeyrac was dating Combeferre. Courfeyrac fucked R up, real, and the more Eponine thought about it, the more anger she felt toward him. There was a moment that night, a moment before eleven pm, her nerves eating her alive, when she really entertained the possibility of confronting her parents about the issue.

Telling them something that might change their minds. But she had no freaking idea how to make them give in. After all, money mattered more to them than whatever she had to say. She then thought of climbing up the stairs and coming up with something that might make Courfeyrac change his mind. Make him go somewhere else, go back to France if that was even an option, because couldn’t that guy see what a horrible idea it’d been to return? Was he fucking blind? She felt the urge to climb those stairs, walk up to Courfeyrac and shake him by the shoulders, make him open his eyes, tell him that whatever he had in mind, making up with Grantaire, apologizing, being friends again, whatever it was, it was not going to work, not after four years of lies. And it wasn’t just a white lie. Courfeyrac was no innocent angel, and someone ought to make him realize it.

But then again, had he really no clue what was going on? Surely after today’s episode, surely after yesterday’s scene, surely after Montparnasse came in throwing punches and curses at him and Combeferre, _surely_ Courfeyrac must have an idea of what he was doing wrong.

 _He’s never giving up_. Eponine sighs, trying to ignore Courfeyrac approaching the counter. It takes three callings of her name for her to turn around with an innocent expression, apologizing for not having heard him before. She’s prepared to retort with a deceiving answer when Courfeyrac opens his mouth again, but he’s not inquiring about Grantaire this time, and the rest of his friends join him shortly after, some of them closer to the entrance, much to Eponine’s happiness.

“We’re all tired, so we’re heading home” he says, quietly like his spirit’s left his body, and Eponine would have felt pity for him if she didn’t know Grantaire was in some dump shooting up some shit because of him. “You have my number, please just- could you send me a message when he’s back? Just to know that he’s all right”

Eponine fakes a smile, remembering how she crumbled the paper the moment Courfeyrac turned around earlier, and threw it into the closest trash bin she spotted. _If you’re so concerned about his well-being, why don’t you leave and never comeback?_ She asks in her head.

“Of course. Sleep well” she says instead, hoping the total opposite, and Courfeyrac doesn’t leave immediately, still staring at her, as though he knows she won’t send him that text. Eponine feels self-conscious and for the first time in a long time, awkward. But she needn’t be, right? _That’s it, Courf, I’m not going to send you that text, not today, not ever. Now take your French squad back to Paris with you and never comeback. Go screw up someone else’s life._ “Bye?” she says in the end, quite rudely. Courfeyrac turns around and joins Combeferre and a blond guy whose name Eponine already forgot how to pronounce. He’d been watching the exchange with a scowl and Eponine had totally _not_ been intimidated by his stare.

She watched with great pleasure as they all exited The Musain, _finally_. She’d been picturing that moment in her mind for the last three hours, as if the chances of Grantaire coming back safe and sound would be higher once they’d left. Eponine was 99% sure Grantaire was coming back, he was too proud and concerned about Montparnasse to go home before his shift was over. Montparnasse had phoned three times to inquire about him, and that meant Grantaire wasn’t home.

* * *

Grantaire should be angry, shouldn’t he? He feels like he’s missing something. What was he angry about? He can’t remember. And Jack can’t remember either. And in the end, after trying to figure it out to no avail, he gives up. It doesn’t matter if he was angry, because he isn’t anymore.

He hops off the motorbike, and Jack does too. He’s got a backpack on and for a moment there, he thinks he sees Gavroche. Because Gavroche might be younger than Jack, but he’s tall and he also wears a backpack to school, except it’s not filled with all kinds of pills and drugs. No, Gavroche is not a drug dealer.

“I’ve got some errands to run” Jack pats him on the shoulder, and it snaps Grantaire back to reality. Grantaire wonders if people will think Jack is a committed student on his way back from the library at midnight, rather than a sixteen-year-old boy whose life is spent in dark alleys and dirty club bathrooms selling illegal substances. “Got your stuff, by the way.” He points to the backpack, but doesn’t make a move to take it off. Grantaire nods.

“Yeah, see you around” is what Grantaire answers, meaning ‘Keep it, I’ll go back to you’. Even though he’s already paid for it, Grantaire doesn’t get high in public places. He really shouldn’t be having this conversation two blocks away from The Musain, either. Anyone could see him.

He watches as Jack winks at him and starts walking away. Grantaire rests on the seat of the motorbike and sighs. It’s only when he takes his phone out of his pocket to check the hour that he remembers it’s broken. He can’t remember why, though. Then he finds a phone battery on his other pocket, and starts to wonder if Jack gave him some kind of memory-wiping powder instead of the usual drug.

He frowns and gets back to his senses when two drunk and annoyingly loud guys walk past him eyeing Montparnasse’s bike with interest. _Right_ , he’s got his own annoyingly loud and drunk place to be. He walks to the bar. It’s too dangerous to get on the bike while high, especially when you’re so high you can’t remember what you did two hours ago. He wishes he had scolded Jack for it while he had the opportunity, perhaps call him on giving him too high a dose or mixing up the drugs, maybe get some of his money back. Because apparently he’d skipped a good part of his shift, and he was in need of a new phone.

(And a new helmet, he realized ten minutes after.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any opinions? Leave them down below and make me happy~!


	10. Falling Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go as planned.

Grantaire remembers why he’d been angry the moment he steps into The Musain. The clouds in his head start to drift away slowly, but surprisingly, the anger doesn’t return. And he thinks he totally wouldn’t care if Courfeyrac stepped in front of him right now and attempted to start an awkward conversation and tell him about the crazy French adventures he’d been up to.

He wouldn’t panic. How could he panic? There’s no reason to panic. Everything’s fine. So Courfeyrac is back after 4 years of no contact, so he’s been gay all along, so he’s dating Combeferre. So what?

“What are you all about?” Eponine nudges him in the stomach as he takes a sit next to Pierre.

“What?” He frowns.

“You’re smiling. What the fuck did you take?” Eponine asks under her breath. Grantaire has been quite out of him ever since he came back, which isn’t unexpected, really. But all of Eponine’s attempts to make him talk, give him names, give him an address, have been unsuccessful. Grantaire might be high, but he isn’t stupid. He fixes his gaze on Pierre, who is dozing off half leaning on the counter, an apologetic expression taking over his features. There’s a reddish circle under his left eye, and Grantaire knows he’s the one who put it there.

“Hey man, I’m really sorry about that” he says, placing a hand on Pierre’s shoulder, who startles. He looks at Grantaire and lets out a long yawn.

“Dude, that’s the sixth time… what the hell is wrong with him?” Pierre turns to Eponine mid-sentence. Grantaire ignores him.

“Tell you what, I’ll uh… let you punch me, I deserve it anyway. I’m not sure why, but there is, most definitely, something I should have been punched for before… I bet my life on it”

Eponine lets out a sigh and drags Grantaire out of his chair, far from the little clientele they’ve got left, into the store room. Grantaire is still mumbling when they get there, telling Eponine about one time he committed a fault during a heated boxing match, and sent some guy named Matthew to the ER with a broken wrist.

“I definitely deserved a punch for that one” he laughs. Eponine snaps her fingers in front of his face, and Grantaire blinks and focuses on her face.

“Grantaire, you do realize your shift is over in twenty-five minutes, and you may as well have a neon sign over your head saying ‘I’m high as a kite’, right?”

It takes R a little longer than usual to process the shower of words. Then he shakes his head and laughs again, much to Eponine’s exasperation.

“That’s not true, I’m perfectly fine!” he exclaims, in a high-pitched voice that proves him wrong.

“I can’t let you go home like this” Eponine decides, talking more to herself than to Grantaire now. If Montparnasse sees Grantaire in this state he’s going to have both their heads. Although, perhaps Eponine should take this chance to let things flow. Let this be it. Do something now before it was too late.  
  


* * *

 

The house smells of morning coffee, as in _2am_ morning. Yet another reason for them to be grateful to Cosette’s father, and perhaps a little grateful towards Marius too, since he keeps reminding them it is _his_ girlfriend’s house too, and that were it not for him, they’d most likely be staying at a cheap hotel with dubious-looking bathrooms, much to Joly’s dismay. Truly, it isn’t Marius and Cosette’s relationship so much as Valjean’s generous personality.

To make the story short, they’d got lucky, the house is big enough for everyone to enjoy their own privacy, and for Cosette and Marius to be an incredibly cheesy couple in private, for Enjolras to study in peace without having to call on anyone (Bahorel) to stop shouting at the xbox, for Joly to bore Bossuet to death with an endless list of reasons why he should wash his hands every ten minutes, and, for Courfeyrac and Combeferre to have a perfectly quiet, passive-aggressive, possibly-ending-in-hugs, argument.

“You didn’t have to do that” Courfeyrac sits on the bed, having climbed up the stairs as soon as he walked through the door, knowing Combeferre would follow.

Nobody commented on it. On how Courfeyrac hadn’t opened his mouth to laugh at Marius’ silly appreciation of Cosette’s hair, or to snort at Bahorel, who’d been cooking up some kind of bet and was challenging everybody to try to beat him at Mario Kart, Courfeyrac seemed but disconnected during the walk home. Combeferre had stopped trying to engage him in conversation after he answered with an absent-minded guttural noise for the third time, and had turned to Enjolras to try and busy himself for the time being. He knew Courfeyrac was pissed, Enjolras knew, and everybody knew, and as uncomfortable as it was, they’d chosen to ignore the elephant in the room.

Combeferre closes the door gently behind him, working on his answer. He probably ought to apologize, really, because there were a dozen ways in which Courfeyrac had been planning to tell Grantaire about his sexuality, and Combeferre had just ruined it all in the span of five seconds.

“I didn’t mean to do that, I just… I don’t know what happened to me” he shrugs. Courfeyrac, who has been avoiding his gaze, finally looks him in the eye. Combeferre knows very well what happened to him. He knows it very well, they all do. Jealously is one of his flaws, and seeing Grantaire so close to Courfeyrac, it was ridiculous, the feeling that’d taken over him, but he’d never liked Grantaire, and seeing the guy today had but fuelled that rejection.

Grantaire had never been good news, he was definitely an alcoholic, no matter how strongly Courfeyrac was against that statement, he was irresponsible and Ferre knew that Courf had bailed him out of jail more times than he let know. Somehow, Combeferre knew those habits hadn’t disappeared at all as soon as he laid eyes on him tonight. The tattoos, the hostility with which he’d treated Marius and Cosette, how he’d crushed Courf’s expectations with one single step… Combeferre wasn’t one to make assumptions, but if he said he wasn’t expecting what saw today, he’d be lying.  

“I specifically asked you not to- do _anything_ of that” Courf hides his face on his hands, and Combeferre takes a step toward the bed.

“Courf, I don’t know what happened to me. I just… sort of, I don’t know, I zoned out, I saw him standing there and just-“

“You should have stayed back, wasn’t that what we’d agreed on?” Courf snaps back, cutting off Ferre in the middle of the sentence.

“Yes, I know, but-“

“Did you see the look on his face? Gosh, he must hate me…”

“Courf, don’t say that.” Combeferre frowns, something akin to anger growing inside him. “You are one of the sweetest people I know and-“

“You don’t know him.” Courfeyrac cuts him off again, this time rising from his seat and confronting Combeferre. “Grantaire hates lies. He hates lies, so he hates liars, and I lied to him, so he hates me” he blurted out. “It was a simple thing, Ferre, just- if you hadn’t put your arm on my shoulder, it’d been different…”

“How do you know?” Combeferre asks him, trying to keep calm himself, because Courfeyrac is already a little edgy, and the last thing they need is to end up shouting at each other. He just needs Courfeyrac to calm down and understand that whatever Grantaire thinks, it shouldn’t be so important, why is it so important?

“What?” Courfeyrac shakes his head, thrown off by the question.

“How do you know?” Combeferre asks again, shrugging in an attempt to make the question look meaningless. “How do you know it’d been any different? How do you know he cares so much? I mean, you really haven’t seen him in four years, isn’t it a little bit rushed to assume he’s so concerned about our relationship?”

Courfeyrac stares at him for a little too long, Combeferre thinks, and when he sees his boyfriend taking a deep breath and biting his lower lip, he knows that was the wrong choice of words, those were not the words Courfeyrac wanted to hear.

“Well, taking into account the fact that he didn’t even know I am gay, _Combeferre_ , I think he must be a little bit concerned about me showing up with a boyfriend!” Courfeyrac exclaims, with a hint of amusement which Combeferre knows does not mean he is amused, at all. “Especially if it’s you” he adds.

 “Oh, so _I_ am to blame now, I see” Ferre crosses his hands on his chest, giving a short nod, he turns around and makes for the door. He doesn’t want to fight with Courf, this shouldn’t be happening. He is willing to take the blame if it means stopping this ridiculous conversation.

“Haven’t you been listening to me? If you hadn’t-“

“ _Yes!_ ” he shouts, turning around. “If I hadn’t put my arm on your shoulder, if I’d just stayed back and acted like we’re just good friends and not bloody dating, because Grantaire is a five-year-old who cannot deal with the fact that you are dating someone else rather than him…”

“THAT’S NOT WHAT THIS IS ABOUT!” Courfeyrac finally snaps “Why can you not understand?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. No, I _don’t_ understand.” Ferre steps closer to Courf, whose hair is a mess, and whose eyes are staring at him. “But who cares? Judging by what we saw today, I don’t think Grantaire is very inclined to go back to being _your bestie_. Which is good by me, so long as I don’t receive any more punches from his boyfriend.” Combeferre grunts, lifting a hand to touch the bruise on his cheek, too caught up in his own anger to notice the flash of disappointment showing in Courfeyrac’s eyes.

Back on the first floor, everybody is sipping coffee silently. Mario Kart is left forgotten on the TV, Cosette is quietly braiding Chetta’s hair, and Feuilly is already half-asleep sprawled on the carpet. Enjolras is sitting the closest to the stairs, listening intently for anything that might indicate it’s time to intervene. He knows Courf and Ferre are civilized people, they won’t start throwing stuff at each other or anything the like, but he’s decided to step in if things get too heated.

Enjolras hasn’t officially met Grantaire, but a couple of minutes were more than enough to confirm everything Ferre had told him about the tattooed artist. He isn’t one to prejudge people, not at all. However he _does_ believe in Combeferre’s word, and Combeferre knows Grantaire from previous years, so that ought to be sufficient proof. The fact that this is the second time these two have fought ever since he’s known them, speaks a lot about this so-called ‘best friend’ of Courf’s. He is, in all sense of the word, a troublemaker. Not to mention his aggressive boyfriend and the unfriendly bartender, Eponine.

Enjolras is willing to endure it, though. The music, people drinking themselves to waste, the cigarette stench, the lack of air-conditioning, anything to make Courfeyrac happy. Combeferre, despite his clear discomfort, had agreed instantly too, because it was frankly very difficult to say no to Courfeyrac. He was a ray of sunshine, and troublemaker or not, Grantaire had been his best friend, so naturally, there had been no objection to it. Bahorel had been particularly happy to know he’d only need to walk down the stairs to get a drink, though Enjolras was certain he wasn’t so keen on the place now that all he’d got as a welcoming gift was a black eye and not a beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! (: I will be really happy.


	11. An Iced-Coffee Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire owes someone an apology.

Grantaire is feeling like shit the moment he wakes up. It is, in all honesty, the most familiar feeling in the world. But there’s something underneath. Something’s fairly new, under the headache and nausea. There’s something non-physical, something that has more to do with feelings and thoughts.

He instantly thinks of Montparnasse when the first thing he sees upon opening his eyes is a ceiling that is not _his_ ceiling. It’s Eponine’s, and he sits up on the sofa, groaning to an empty and silent living room. There’s a clock somewhere near, ticking, and R can barely hear his friend’s soft snores coming from the room round the corner.

He looks around for the clock when he spots his phone resting on the floor, next to his shoes, its screen cracked. And he doesn’t think of Montparnasse anymore. Last night's incidents start flashing up before his eyes, like fireworks going off without warning.

There was some Courfeyrac, some punching, some angry words, and a lot of angel dust. He looks down to his left arm, a reddish point standing out from the colourful tattoos, and he lets out a curse. Shit, that’s not supposed to be so noticeable. It’s red and slightly swollen and Grantaire knows that it’ll be there for some hours, regrettably.

He’s gotta give classes, he’s gotta see Montparnasse, he’s gonna notice. Montparnasse is going to fucking know Grantaire is doing drugs again as soon as he sees him enter the house wearing a long-sleeved shirt for the first time in all summer. He’s going to know something’s wrong.

Grantaire knows he shouldn’t be grateful for having a reason to get high. But that doesn’t change the fact that he is. He ignores that feeling and buries it deep where it can’t come up again for some time. Because he knows he’s _not_ an addict, he’s not. It’s just… a coping mechanism. He’ll be fine once Courfeyrac leaves. It’ll all be back to what it was before. He won’t shoot up on weekdays, everything will go back to normal.

Except it wouldn’t, really. It’d never go back to normal. Grantaire had found comfort in the fact that Courfeyrac was straight. He’d thought ‘I am not the problem’. He could deal with that. Courfeyrac had never been bad to him, he’d always been an angel and a wonderful friend. Hell, the kid even apologized for not being able to return Grantaire’s feelings. He felt a ‘horrible friend’, he said. Grantaire wonders how Courfeyrac would feel if he knew he’s the cause behind his screwed-up health…

R shakes his head, frowning at his own idiotic thoughts.

He knows that’s a dismal lie. Courfeyrac is not to blame, not in a million years. He couldn’t go through life blaming people for his lack of self-reliance. He wasn’t a child anymore. Courfeyrac hadn’t pointed a gun at him and told him to love him helplessly until it hurt, he hadn’t thrown those pills down his throat and ordered him to swallow. Grantaire was self-destructive, and it was all on him and none other than him.

If anything, Courfeyrac had tried to ease the destruction. Grantaire admits that his course of action had backfired completely. Courfeyrac had played the game horribly. He’d known all along, that he was gay, that _they_ were gay, and Grantaire should really give him credit for trying to go easy on him, because that’s why Courf had done it, wasn’t it? It didn’t seem like anybody else knew at the time, but then again, Combeferre and Courfeyrac might have been fucking under his nose and he never would’ve noticed, because he never thought Courfeyrac to be gay. He’d got those vibes from Combeferre more than once, and Combeferre had never really cared about Grantaire, so R figures if that idiot didn’t shout it in his face, it’d been only because Courfeyrac had asked him not to.

He blinks because his eyes are _not_ getting watery, he’s not gonna fucking cry like a teenager whose crush doesn’t return his feelings. Grantaire would never force himself on Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac had the right to love whoever he decided, and if a dickhead was the recipient of that love instead of him, then so be it, so long as Courf was happy. Hell, Combeferre would have probably jumped at the opportunity to shove it in his face. At least, Grantaire would’ve been, if he were him.

Well, he’d had his chance.

That bump in his throat isn’t there just because. He feels betrayed. And he’s on his right to be. One would think Courfeyrac wouldn’t still have such an impact on him anymore, right, he’d comeback after years of no contact, but that was long forgotten. Grantaire wouldn’t blame Courfeyrac for wanting to get away, follow his dreams, he’d always known Courf was meant for great things, and R had always been there, meant for nothing. Grantaire had missed him unconditionally, but he’d be happy if Courfeyrac finished his studies, made a life for himself, even if he wasn’t included in it. Grantaire would be over the moon, there’s nothing else that’d make him happier than seeing Courf succeed.

But that was not the problem. Courfeyrac can’t have figured out his sexuality after he flew to France, well, it _technically_ was possible, why not? But Grantaire knows that’s not the case. Courfeyrac had been in love with Combeferre ever since they were first paired up in that Astronomy class. R had just dismissed it as unimportant, he was just one more person Courf looked up to, _the intelligent Combeferre_. Courfeyrac admired a lot of people, teachers, his parents, and seniors. R would like to take the blame for being so _blind_ , but he wasn’t going to do it. Courfeyrac was a liar, a good one at it, and the fact that he knew Grantaire was gay and never thought of coming out of the closet, never trusted him enough –Gosh, Grantaire had trusted Courf so much, he was everything he had-, it hurt. How many other things Courfeyrac had lied about during their friendship days, Grantaire doesn’t want to know.

Well, everybody has a dark side, he supposes, even Courfeyrac. That deceiving little piece of garbage.

Anyhow, whatever the reason, Courf wasn’t a bad person. He surely wasn’t plotting along with Combeferre to have him dead. He surely never thought Grantaire would end up on a hospital bed, unconscious and with a tube down his throat.

And Grantaire suddenly thinks that if Courf had come out to him before leaving off to France, he would’ve ended up in worse conditions.

Although, what’s worse than being on the brink of dying?

Well, dying, he supposes.

But even so, Grantaire had never had that intention. Not really… He hadn’t. He hadn’t been trying to kill himself. He just wanted the pain to go away. But then again, he _did_ know that came with a risk. He’d known Eponine wouldn’t be home for two more hours, he’d known he wouldn’t be found until it was too late to repair the damage, he wasn’t counting on Montparnasse stopping by to drop Gavroche from school. He hadn’t swallowed those pills thinking he’d be found, but he hadn’t swallowed them thinking he’d never see the light of day again, either. He supposes he just… didn’t really give a damn about it at the time.

When his stomach grunts in protest, Grantaire puts on his shoes and gets off the couch, walking towards the chair his t-shirt is resting on. He doesn’t have time to ponder about what could have been, or what reasons Courfeyrac had had to lie to him. It didn’t matter anymore. It was done.

Grantaire is with Montparnasse now, and that’s all he needs to worry about at the moment, because he doesn’t know how Eponine managed to pull it off, but he didn’t make it home last night, and Montparnasse will be waiting there, most likely with a lot of questions that Grantaire is already trying to figure out answers for.

But first, he needs to cover that mark on his arm. Although it won’t be of much use really, he thinks, wearing something with long sleeves will scream ‘drugs’ to Montparnasse, and he can’t prevent that from happening. He can’t un-do what it’s done. He can’t make that mark disappear.

Gosh, he wishes he hadn’t been so fucking careless. He doesn’t need to blow this up. This could’ve been avoided if only he had some brain and sense.

He leaves the house after scribbling a very brief thank-you note to Eponine on a piece of paper and leaving it on the couch. If he paid Eponine ten dollars for every favour he owes her, he’s sure she wouldn’t be working at that goddamn dump of a bar anymore.

But hey, at least they get to share their misery.

Eponine’s flat is a block away from the Musain, and Grantaire decides he’ll drop by to change clothes, he should have left something there, some other day… probably. Hopefully something long enough to cover his elbows.

But he’s screwed anyway.

 

The Musain is relatively empty, Grantaire walks in warily, scanning the place for Courfeyrac or Combeferre. The coast is clear, so he waves in Gina’s direction and makes his way towards the back room, where he is sure Eponine last placed a box with spare clothes.

He puts on the hoodie that smells the least of smoke, but he still smells like a walking cigarette and it’s making his own stomach turn. Gina is too engrossed talking to that guy on the counter and she doesn’t even spare a glance in Grantaire’s direction when he makes his way across the place and enters the men’s bathroom. Not like it’s the first time he drops by with a massive hangover and looking like shit. Gina’s used to it.

He splashes his face with cold water and stares into the large mirror. The hoodie is a little bit tight for comfort but it hides the needle mark perfectly. That’ll do. He nods to his reflection and leaves the bathroom.

He collides against a mass of yellowish hair as soon as he steps out of the bar, not even bothering to bid Gina farewell. The smell of coffee outweighs the smell of cigarettes emanating from his own clothes, and Grantaire makes a face as he steps back to offer the guy an apology, but the stranger fixes his eyes on him and suddenly the coffee stain on his red t-shirt doesn’t seem to be his main concern.

“Sorry man, I don’t have any cash on me-” Grantaire taps his jean’s pockets, even though he knows he spent it all in dust last night. “I’ll buy you a new one next time? I work here, you can confirm with the girl on the counter” R nods in Gina’s direction, and he’s about to walk away, not really feeling up to a morning/midday argument with an unfriendly coffee-enthusiast.

“Grantaire, right?” The guy says, and Grantaire nods.

“Yeah, night shift. So I’ll pay you later?” He asks, not wanting to be impolite, but impatient to leave the scene. He _did_ bathe this attractive human being with iced-coffee, so the least he can do is spare a few bucks to make up for the stain that will probably not leave that shirt.

“Actually…” The guy eyes him from head to toe, and Grantaire’s brain suddenly freezes. “You can pay me now.”

“Dude, I have no ca-“

“I know.” The blonde cuts him off, and Grantaire is 99,9% sure he just saw him clench his jaw. “You just said that. I’m not deaf” he adds.

R tries not to read too much into that, because yes, this dude is hot, but, no, these things don’t happen to him. He frowns, and looks down to the almost empty cup of iced-coffee in the man’s hands.

“Look, I’m already running out of time-“

“It’ll only be a minute” the stranger cuts him off, fixing his blue-ish eyes on him. Grantaire hesitates again, and looks around, the sky getting greyer by the minute.

“All right” Grantaire sighs. The rain will give him a believable excuse to show up over-dressed, so he supposes it won’t kill him to delay his arriving. “What can I do for you?” He tries a smile, but the stranger doesn’t return it. In fact, he looks really pissed off –despite his attempts to hide it, he’s still glaring at him, and his jaw is doing that thing- and R starts to run a scan in his head. Has he punched this guy before? Has he insulted him before?

No, he would’ve remembered. That hair, that face, it’s not easy to forget. Unless he’s done it while drunk. That’s it. He only hopes what came out of his mouth was a real insult and not some obscenity like the one he’s trying to supress at the moment.

Grantaire puts his hands inside the hoodie pockets –finds out an expired cigarettes box in the right one- and follows the blond to the café opposite. The place is buzzing with clients and Grantaire’s stomach complains as soon as the smell of sandwiches fills his nostrils.

Shit, he really has to be more consistent with his meals. How many hours has it been since he ate anything?

He takes a sit in one of the few free tables, ignoring looks being shot his way while the dude orders another drink. Yes, he _is_ aware he looks like he just jumped out of bed –probably because he did. Well, couch- but _no_ , he couldn’t give less shits about it. The blond doesn’t seem to, either, as he takes a sit opposite Grantaire, who crosses his legs below the table and nods in his direction.

“So?”

Blondie lets his gaze fall on his interlaced hands resting on the table for a moment, and Grantaire frowns.

“I’ll go straight to the point” he looks up again, that fierce look not abandoning his features.

“Please do” Grantaire almost smirks. Well, he _did_ mention he was running out of time, so the least he expects from this guy is to make this quick.

“You were rude last night, and I want you to apologize to my friend.” He says, staring at Grantaire.

“Ooookay” Grantaire starts. So he wasn’t so far from the truth in the end, he’s glad to know he didn’t actually harass this guy in any way, after all. “You might want to be a little more specific” he says, trying not to let out a laugh, and smiling instead. “I am rude to a lot of people”

Blondie doesn’t find any of it amusing, Grantaire doesn’t expect him to.

“Chances are your friend deserved it, but I kind of just ruined that precious shirt” Grantaire gestures to the guy’s chest. “I can make an exception, though I can’t guarantee I won’t punch him again if he behaves like an asshole” he shrugs. He’s not going to lie, and if this guy has heard his name before, then he must at least have some idea of the kind of person he is.

“You didn’t punch him” blondie says, and Grantaire opens his mouth in hesitation.

“Oh” he narrows his eyes. “Then what- did I call him a disgusting drunk dickhead and waste of space? We get a lot of those” he smiles now, and the guy’s jaw does the thing again.

Grantaire thinks the look fits him.

“You really live up to your reputation, Grantaire” The guy eyes him over again, his eyes stop to look at his wrists and the tattoos, and R unconsciously pulls the sleeves of the hoodie down.

“Thank you” he retorts.

“It wasn’t a compliment” Blondie spits, his cheeks now turning the same colour of his shirt. The angrier he gets, the more attractive he looks, and Grantaire wants to try and see how much longer he can hold this until he ends up dripping iced-coffee himself.

The waitress leaves the cup on the table, the guy barely acknowledging her with a nod.

“You will apologize.” Blondie says, it sounds like an order and R reminds himself that yes, he should agree to that, but he’s enjoying the situation too much to just give in so easily.

“I’ll be the judge of that. I need more details. Is your friend an asshole type A, or an asshole type B?” He shrugs again.

“ _Enough_.” The dude snaps, closing a hand around the iced-coffee dangerously, and Grantaire lets out a laugh now.

R is sure if he squints, he’ll be able to see smoke coming out of this guy’s ears. He looks like a furious dragon ready to attack. Though Grantaire knows he’s not the physical type. He knows how to read body language. If there is any type of aggression about to take place, it’ll most definitely be coffee on his face.

“All right, all right, I’m just kidding, Mr. Righteous. I will apologize” Grantaire gives in, mostly because he’s endeared by the man’s intentions. He just got his shirt ruined and all he can think about is his friend receiving a proper apology, and honestly, Grantaire is starting to think this is a big misunderstanding, because this guy looks like the peace-making type, and chances are his friends are too. If he insulted anyone, he must have been drunk shitless, in which case he _will_ properly apologize. “So will you tell me what I did, or am I gonna have to keep guessing?”

Blondie stops gripping the cup with threatening force, but he still looks very pissed and Grantaire thinks he should be drinking some linden tea instead of that black coffee with cream.

“I don’t even know your name” Grantaire gestures vaguely towards him.

The guy keeps his mouth shut and R lifts an inquisitive brow.

“Okay, Golden Locks it is.”

“My name is Enjolras” he snaps almost instantly, causing Grantaire to frown in confusion.

“Come again?” R leans on the table, thinking he just heard the name of a German brand of yoghurts.

“ _Enj-ol-ras_ ” the guy emphasises every syllable, and Grantaire would be cooking up some more comebacks if that name didn’t sound so French. He freezes in place and inhales deeply.

He knows where this is going and perhaps if he hadn’t been so focused on making Golden Locks turn red, he would've probably figured it out earlier. Well, Enjolras does really have an impeccable English, so he prefers to blame it on that instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading that first E/R interaction as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3


	12. Back In The Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is angry, and Montparnasse is understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got an update notification and came here and found nothing and cursed at me, I'm sorry. I'd actually posted a new chapter, but deleted it minutes later bc I wasn't completely satisfied w/it. Anyhow, here it is now (:

Grantaire was right. Enjolras wasn’t the punching-sense-into-you type. If he were, Grantaire would probably be bleeding by now. Enjolras appears to have much expertise in supressing his anger, actually, something that cannot be said about Grantaire himself, hence the hands he just turned into fists on his lap.

“So you’re Courfeyrac’s friend” Grantaire says, more for himself than for Enjolras to hear. The words make his stomach constrict.

“Best friend” Enjolras corrects.

Grantaire smiles.

“I’m sure you are”

Enjolras grins for the first time. A cocky grin that Grantaire wants to wipe off his face, but he stands up instead, and tries not to slap his fists on the table, he’s not going to lose his temper here, it’s exactly what this idiot wants.

“I’m sorry, Golden Locks, I guess I’ll just pay for the dry cleaner’s bill” he gestures to Enjolras’ shirt before shoving people out of the way and making his way outside, where a lightning just shoot up in the sky.

Grantaire isn’t surprised when the French man stands in his way and clenches his jaw furiously.

“You really should stop doing that” Grantaire nods towards his face. “It’s gonna take its toll on you one day”

“ _Shut up_ ” Enjolras cuts him off, anger sprouting from his pores, his French accent finally surfacing. Grantaire can’t deny he still is very high up on the level of attractiveness, but his desire to go on with this conversation is non-existent, and he’s not going to stay around to be shouted at.

He tries to dodge Enjolras but the blond hasn’t got any intention of letting him leave.

“Move” Grantaire grunts. Enjolras ignores his request.

“Why are you so stubborn?” he asks instead.

Grantaire smiles.

“I don’t know, why are you so blond?” He imitates, and Enjolras seemingly loses his patience then, gripping Grantaire’s hoodie and pushing the tattooed man against the window of the café, gaining some concerned looks from passer-bys.

Grantaire doesn’t resist.

“Courf was looking forward to seeing you last night. He even dropped by your place” Enjolras makes a face which Grantaire interprets as disgust. He doesn’t blame him, his old apartment wasn’t very nice-looking, let alone nicely-located, and Enjolras looks like the exact type of victim the mugger that used to live next-door targeted. “…only to have some hooker shout at him to ‘stop banging on the goddamn door’”

Grantaire snorts.

Enjolras’ grip on his hoodie tightens.

“Is everything a joke to you?”

“You really like rhetorical questions” Grantaire answers, seeing the flame of impatience growing bigger in Enjolras’ eyes.

“I won’t ask again, you will apologize.” The blonde says through gritted teeth. R smiles tentatively.

“Or what?” He raises his eyebrows.

Enjolras seems to be considering his options. Grantaire chooses that moment to shrug the French man off himself. He puts his hoodie back in place and watches as Enjolras stumbles back.

“I am not the one who needs to apologize.” He states, another lightning in the sky, followed by a thunder.

Enjolras startles and looks up. Grantaire tries not to be distracted by the sight of his exposed collarbone and neck and takes advantage of the moment, slipping past him and walking away. He’s ready to give Enjolras an unfriendly warning if he dares hold him back again, but the blond doesn’t catch up with him, and R obliges himself not to look back.

Who the fuck is this guy and what makes him believe he has the right to ask Grantaire for an apology? For Courfeyrac? When _Courfeyrac_ is the one who should be on his knees begging for forgiveness?

He shakes his head in disbelief. Another thunder is heard and he feels a drop of rain on his nose. Grantaire inhales deeply to calm his nerves as he clutches the cigarette box with his right hand. Fuck, if only he had a lighter.

* * *

The sky is falling outside, Grantaire clutches the doorknob and takes a deep breath, feeling like a criminal about to be interrogated and found guilty.

He steps in, leaving a track of water behind him.

Montparnasse looks up from his place on the couch, remote control in one hand, apple in the other. He watches in uncomfortable silence as Grantaire closes the door and approaches.

“Where’s my bike?” he asks, chewing a bite of the apple, returning his attention to the news report on the TV, and Grantaire pretends that his cold tone of voice didn’t just make his whole body shudder.

“I didn’t want to drive through the storm” he answers, and Montparnasse hums in response.

Grantaire can deal with an angry Montparnasse. He can deal with the shouts and incrimination and the shame, but Montparnasse giving him the cold shoulder is something that Grantaire doesn’t know how to respond to. So he turns around and heads for the bathroom. He locks himself in, the TV reporter’s voice sounding distant. He takes off his clothes, kicks his shoes off, and just stands below the water and rinses his body in auto-pilot mode. The stench of tobacco is impregnated on his body.

Montparnasse has questions –Grantaire figures he’s also got the answers-, but he wishes he wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily.

Grantaire _wants_ Montparnasse to ask. But Montparnasse won’t ask, because Montparnasse knows he’s back in the hole, and perhaps he’s tired of it. Perhaps he’s not coming in for him this time, perhaps he’s just sick of him and he’ll just let things happen this time, and Grantaire can’t blame him. It’s high time he dealt with his demons. He’ll lose, he knows, it’s not a battle he can win. But it’s not Montparnasse’s battle either, and Montparnasse is not going to keep saving a person that doesn’t want to be saved.

Does he _want_ to be saved?

He doesn’t have time to answer that question, because Montparnasse is knocking on the door insistently.

“R” he calls.

Grantaire closes the tap and gets a dry towel from the small cabinet under the sink. He spares a look to the pile of wet clothes, the cigarettes dripping water on the floor, and puts the towel around his waist. When he opens the door, Montparnasse’s fist is in the air.

“Classes were put off” Montparnasse says, showing R his mobile phone as if to back-up the information. Grantaire is puzzled for a second, but then he remembers _his_ phone ceased to exist last night _._

He tries –and fails- not to look too disappointed. Montparnasse reads his expression, though. He even looks apologetic, as though he’s sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

“Classrooms are flooded” he adds, matter-of-factly.

R nods in acknowledgement.

“Okay” he says, quietly, but Montparnasse’s already turned around and left the room.

This week is getting shittier and shittier, Grantaire thinks. Chances are kids will return to classes after the school’s been cleaned, and that means he’s got at least two more days to drown in his misery.

He puts on a pair of worn-out pyjamas and throws himself onto the mattress, groaning against the pillow. It smells of Montparnasse, and Grantaire wishes Mont didn’t have to leave. Sure, he might not be willing to talk to him, but he’s here. He’s in the next room. He’s near. He won’t let R drown. He’s the safety, the lifeboat.

It’s hot, but Grantaire slips under the covers anyway. Rolls up until he’s tangled and pretends his life isn’t crap, that harm can’t reach him, nor can lies, or his damn lack of self-worth.

 

 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he’s drifting off when he feels a shift of weight on the mattress and Montparnasse is calling his name again. He opens his heavy eyelids and answers with a guttural noise, his head foggy.

Montparnasse manages to get him out of the cocoon, by which moment Grantaire is fully awake and also fully aware that his body is burning and he _can’t_ have a fever because _it’s summer_.

“Holy shit, what the _fuck_ are you doing?” Montparnasse scolds him, throwing the blankets off the bed and pulling Grantaire’s arms until he’s in a sitting position. Grantaire groans again, still unable to focus. All he’s able to see is a dark stain to his right, which he supposes is his _punk/gothic boyfriend_. “Grantaire, answer me” he orders sternly, and Grantaire manages an ‘ _I’m fine_ ’ that makes Montparnasse clench his jaw. “ _Get up_."

Grantaire tries to do it himself, but he’s swaying dangerously on the floor and he’s glad Montparnasse isn’t that much of a jerk to let him fall face-on and break his nose, despite really deserving it.

“What the _fuck_ did you take?”

Grantaire doesn’t answer. He’s short of breath. He doesn’t know the answer. Or does he? He’s taken many things in his life.

They get into the bathroom, -or rather, Montparnasse gets Grantaire into the bathroom, stumbling and letting out curses-, and Grantaire finds it too bright and white, except for Mont, obviously, who is black as night. Black as sin. Black as a hole. Grantaire is in a hole… Is Montparnasse the hole?

“Grantaire! Stop it!” the darkness shouts, and Grantaire tries to get away to no avail. He’ll just give in, like last time. It’s eating him… the hole is burying him. He doesn’t want to be buried… he doesn’t want to die. He can’t breathe, is the hole closing up? It is, and it’s taking the air. There’s no air…

* * *

The first thing Grantaire is aware of upon regaining his consciousness, is the coldness on his forehead, and the emptiness in his stomach. Then there’s the sound of thunder, distant. When he opens his eyes and lifts a hand to remove the damp cloth on his forehead, Montparnasse’s voice startles him.

“Leave it on” he orders, and Grantaire looks for him in the darkness. It’s night? What day is it? What time is it? Why is Montparnasse here? Shouldn’t Mont be working? Shouldn’t _he_ be working? “Unless you want to take an ice-water bath.”

R winces at the thought.

“Perhaps I should make you, if that’ll teach you”

Grantaire finally sees Montparnasse standing at the foot of the bed. The room is pitch dark but he can make out his silhouette, he’s crossing his arms on his chest.

Another thunder sounds through the walls, accompanied by Grantaire’s stomach rumbling.

“Is the power out?” R groans. Even if this apartment was far better than the dump he used to live in, it still had its disadvantages. Terrible cable reception, unbearably hot in summer, and vulnerable to thunderstorms.

“No, I just like to stand here and watch you sleep in the darkness” Montparnasse retorts, and even though Grantaire can’t actually see his face, he’d bet his left arm he’s rolling his eyes.

“You skipped work?” Grantaire sits on the bed. He’s tired and sticky, -damn it, he took a shower earlier, he hates being poor-.

Montparnasse ignores him, he unfolds his arms and Grantaire can see him running his hands through his hair.

“You scared the shit out of me, _Grantaire_. You fucking passed out and you were burning up, I swear, if you do that to me _one more time_ …”

“I’m sorry” Grantaire breathes out, not feeling up to an argument. But he knows he doesn’t have the right to feel like that. He deserves what’s coming to him.

“Do me a favour” Montparnasse approaches the side of the bed. He sits down gently. “Tell me what happened the last time you tried to avoid your problems by doing drugs.”

Grantaire lets out a sigh and doesn’t even call him on it. He won’t try to deny it. It’s done, he finally fell apart and Montparnasse was there to see him.

“ _What happened?_ ” Montparnasse insists, and Grantaire thinks he just heard him grit his teeth.

“I got an overdose?”

“You got an overdose. And what happened after?”

“Where do you want to get with this?” Grantaire protests.

“I’m trying to make you open your eyes, Grantaire. You’re on the same path, we both know how this ends. Now, I want you to tell me if what you’re trying to do is _kill yourself_ once and for all, because I don’t fucking want to be around when that happens.”

Grantaire remains silent. He’s not suicidal. He doesn’t want to kill himself. But what the fuck is he supposed to do? How else is he supposed to make the pain go away? The emptiness? The coldness? Nothing works, _nothing fucking works_. The drugs work, they make him feel detached, happy even. There’s no rejection or failure. Everything feels good, everything feels okay. But that’s the thing though, isn’t it? It _feels_ good, but it isn’t. It _feels_ okay, but it isn’t. It never is, and it’ll never be.

“I’m out of options, R” Montparnasse speaks again. This time he places a cold hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself…”

“I’m sorry” Grantaire apologizes again. “I swear, I wasn’t trying… I’ve never tried- I just wanted to stop feeling-“

He can’t put it into words. Somehow, saying it out loud makes it more real. But he doesn’t have to speak his mind, he doesn’t need to speak the words, because Montparnasse knows, Montparnasse understands. He gives in into the embrace and holds onto his boyfriend.

“I know, I know…” Mont repeats in his ear, rubbing circles on Grantaire’s back. And here he is, _again_. A mess. Back into the hole. And Montparnasse is here _again_ , offering his hand. “I’m sorry too” he whispers over Grantaire’s sobbing. “I wish I could do more…”

Grantaire shakes his head then, breaking the hug. A lightning illuminates the room and R can see Montparnasse’s dark eyes full of anguish.

No, Parnasse shouldn’t be feeling like this. Grantaire shouldn’t be dragging him into any of it. Mont doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve him. He’s a good guy. He deserves better.

“Please tell me that was a thunder and not your stomach” Montparnasse says. Grantaire makes a face, ready to be reprimanded like a 5-year-old. Then he remembers Parnasse can’t actually see him.

“That was… a thunder”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought to share [this R/Montparnasse aesthetic](http://likelectricity.tumblr.com/post/143821347179/montparnasse-grantaire-inspired-by-my-fic) I made with you guys~ since it's based on Addict With A Pen.  
> 


	13. Running's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's made a decision.

Enjolras would be over the moon today. _Would_. Because The Musain is practically empty, the storm doesn’t show signs of stopping, and everybody is focused on their own assignments. Some people, _too_ focused, even. Two of his closest friends, to be more specific, are too focused to even _look_ at each other, and it’s making Enjolras clench his fists. The blond would be over the moon, because honestly, it might be the first day they’ve actually made progress ever since they started holding the meetings at the bar, but he just can’t bring himself to enjoy it. It is quite difficult to work towards their goal when neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac are willing to stand less than a metre from the other.

It’s not like he hasn’t tried to make either of them see reason. Enjolras had been successful in making Combeferre apologize, but they both knew he didn’t really mean it, and Courfeyrac could see right through him. Enjolras wouldn’t blame Ferre. Neither would he blame Courf. Grantaire was clearly the reason for them falling out, but the brunette had left it pretty clear he had no intention of saying sorry, so Enjolras was definitely running out of ideas.

He lets out a sigh and looks down at the coffee stain on his red shirt.

Everyone’s silent apart from the thundering outside and Musichetta humming a happy melody –Enjolras’ been fighting the urge to ask her to stop, he’s quite certain he’s seen Bossuet nodding off twice in the last twenty minutes- but it might as well be the rain, he reminds himself, because Joly is perfectly awake and the three of them are cuddled up in a corner.  

It’s barely 9:36 pm, but Enjolras decides they can all use a little break. If only to recharge their batteries. If only to get rid of the tension. Combeferre’s been typing down on the laptop next to him, and Enjolras can almost feel the air around him heavier and fraught with unspoken words. Courfeyrac seems to be doing fine, but he’s not being his chipper self today, and Enjolras figures Bahorel drinking down his fourth beer in front of him and going on about a boxing match he watched last night isn’t helping his mood.

Feuilly’s been engaging him in conversation, at least. They’ve stuck together all afternoon, and Enjolras is starting to feel as if he’s missing a limb. It’s ridiculous, but he’s accustomed to having both Courf and Ferre alongside him at the meetings, and though he knows Courfeyrac’s not particularly angry at him, he still wishes he’d leave their relationship argument aside and sit down on his left as he always does.

When he finally stands up from his place, everyone turns their attention to him.

“Let’s have a break” he announces. Bossuet rises from his seat and stretches like a cat. He also lets out a cat-like yawn. “Freshen up” he adds, directing his gaze at Bossuet, who smiles sheepishly and asks: “Who wants coffee?”

More than one person puts their hand up, and then Bahorel’s calling a raffle because apparently no one’s willing to cross the street for coffee with the storm that’s going on outside. Joly’s name gets picked up, but when he turns his head in silent request to Bossuet, his boyfriend groans and rises from his seat.

“All right, get your American money out” he says, mustering the most cliché accent ever, and after he’s got the bills, he goes down the stairs reciting the orders to himself. Musichetta follows right after with Jehan’s flowery umbrella in her hand.  

Enjolras looks in Courf’s direction. He and Feuilly are chatting up about what Enjolras knows is a schedule that includes visits to museums and iconic places around the city. It’s not quite finished yet, but Feuilly’s quite committed to it, so he knows it won’t take much longer to round up. He’d been looking forward to going sightseeing ever since they’d decided to spend a couple of months in the USA, and Enjolras can still remember what brought Courf and Feuilly together when they met was the latter’s interest for the former’s homeland. They’d engage in long conversations about American history, with Combeferre chiming in to add some relevant facts that’d back up Courf’s version of the story.

He looks back to Combeferre, then, and sees him frowning at the screen. Enjolras sits back down and gets closer, already eager to hear whatever Combeferre’s found wrong with the text he composed, prepared to make any necessary changes.

* * *

A job is a job. Be it raining cats and dogs or not, Grantaire still has to go make a living. He knows not a soul will be there. These tropical storms are a bitch and R admits it, not even himself would go out for a drink in this weather. He wouldn’t go out for _drugs_ in this weather.

He shakes his head. No, no more drugs. He needs to wipe that word off his dictionary.

Montparnasse is looking out the window, so he doesn’t notice Grantaire glancing at him with the corner of his eye, as though he’s afraid his boyfriend’s heard his thoughts. He promised he’d try, and so he will. They both know staying home isn’t good, if anything, it’ll make matters worse, hence they being on the bus on their way to the bar right now. Montparnasse missed his shift, but Grantaire knows that’s not the reason why he’s coming along.

Mont won’t be able to chaperone him everywhere, though, and Grantaire doesn’t want him to think he’s lying to him and doing drugs behind his back, even if that’s what he’s been doing for a long time. But it’s different now, because Montparnasse knows, and he doesn’t deserve to be punished this way. Not again. So R’s made up his mind, and he will never again go to that bookshop. If not for his own good, for Parnasse’s.

The driver lets out a curse as a gust of wind shakes the bus, and Montparnasse laughs under his breath. Grantaire smiles too, mostly because he knows Mont has his eyes on him right now, and he needs to look like he doesn’t feel like shit.

“How are you coping?” he asks.

Grantaire still feels rather feverish, but his stomach isn’t rumbling anymore and he’d forgotten how great it felt to have a proper meal.

“I still hate life, sort of” he answers, and Montparnasse sighs.

“Yeah” he mumbles, looking out the window again. This is one of the things he likes about Mont. Their lives are not a bed of roses, they have never been, and it’s something they have in common. Courfeyrac’s life was round and borderline perfect. Well-off, supportive parents. Aspirations, courage to follow his dream and the determination to achieve it. Whereas Grantaire had always been the total opposite. Montparnasse was on this side of it, too. On the shitty side, the dark side, the misfits’ side.

In fact, if Grantaire was to be honest, Montparnasse’s life was by far the most screwed-up between the two of them, it’s just his boyfriend actually knew to get his shit together. Grantaire, on the other hand, had no freaking idea how to deal with any of it.

Parnasse didn’t even _have_ parents. As far as Grantaire knows, he’d been around since Eponine’s teenage years. Gavroche looked up to him as though he were his blood brother, and even if Ep didn’t admit it herself, Montparnasse was undeniably part of the Thenardier’s family.

R had never heard him whining about it, ever. Not about how fucking shitty life was, how everything that came his way were problems and misfortune. Montparnasse _had_ been lost, he’d been on a bad path, but unlike Grantaire, hadn’t needed anyone to bring him back from it. He’d turned around of his own volition, he’d been able to crawl out of the hole on his own. He was strong, he had his feet on the ground. A stable ground, unlike Grantaire’s.

But he wouldn’t call Mont an optimistic, not at all. Montparnasse had no aspirations. He had no plans for the future. He lived in the present, he was comfortable as he was. In that sense, he and Grantaire were almost identical. Except of course, Grantaire lived in the past.

Well, at least that’s what he’d heard his psychologist say, back when he’d agreed to take up a rehabilitation programme. ‘ _Why do you feel Courfeyrac’s opinion of you is so important? Why do you require his acceptance so much? Do you feel, in a way, that you owe him something? Why did you feel that closing up to your friend was the right choice? Why were you afraid of his response? Did he ever make you feel rejected? Have you ever felt rejected before, by anyone?_ ’

Projecting his fears, he’d been. _Or_ , that’s what she kept telling him. This ginger 30-something had had the impression Grantaire’s insecurities about his sexuality were somehow linked to the relationship he’d had with his parents, she thought Grantaire felt he’d failed them, and that he didn’t want to fail Courfeyrac too, he didn’t want to make the same mistakes and push Courfeyrac away as he’s done with his parents. Except Grantaire hadn’t pushed _anyone_ away. _They’d_ been the ones pushing him away. _Or_ , that’s what she reminded him every session. Because every meeting seemed to address the same issue. Grantaire failed to ‘see himself as the victim’. According to Martha, that is.

It’d been an utter waste of time, no matter how strongly Eponine or Montparnasse objected to it. He’d tried, he’d really done it. He’d endured it for a whole month. If it’d been beneficial _in the least_ , Grantaire wouldn’t have jumped back into the pit so soon. Psychology was a waste of time, he didn’t need to sit in front of someone and talk about his life as though the solutions to all his problems would pop up out of those stupid little notebooks they wrote down on.

“Holy cow, we’re gonna get wet” Montparnasse exclaims, when the bus comes to a halt. Grantaire snaps out of his reverie and stands up.

“Hmm, hardly something new” he mumbles. Montparnasse’s laugh follows him out of the bus. He gets off first, and his boyfriend lands next to him, pulling his hoodie over his head and then Grantaire’s.

“Come on!” Parnasse exclaims, and Grantaire doesn’t have any intention of staying out in the rain, so he runs behind him until they’ve reached the bar. Eponine’s face is priceless when she sees them stumbling into the place, leaving tracks of water behind them.

“The fuck are you two doing here?!” she half laughs.

Grantaire hadn’t expected the bar to actually be _completely_ empty, so he laughs too. Montparnasse is shaking his head and drops of water are landing on the nearby chairs. Eponine scowls at him.

“Oh yeah, I’m here and I’m getting paid” Montparnasse points at her, she raises her eyebrows and crosses her hands on her chest. Typical Eponine pose.

“You missed your shift” she states.

“Grantaire needs a phone”

“And I need a car, but we can’t have everything” she turns to Grantaire, who is too busy sending furtive looks to the stairs. “I thought you had a fever” she tells him, nodding in his direction.

“Nah, I’m fine” he answers, sparing a look to Montparnasse before walking towards the stairs leading up to the second floor. Mont lets out a heavy sigh and sits in front of Eponine, who’s not trying to hide her confusion. He nods towards the whiskey bottle and snatches a glass from the counter. Eponine pours the drink in.

“Face your demons and all that shit” Montparnasse mutters as an answer before swallowing down the drink and wincing at its taste. “Life’s a bitch” he adds before filling up the glass again.

* * *

The coffee’s woken everybody up. Almost too much. Bossuet can’t stop drumming on the table, Chetta is just plainly singing now, and Jehan’s joined Courfeyrac and Feuilly on their planning, and although Enjolras’ hasn’t moved from his seat for a good hour, he’s certain no-one’s actually finished any of the jobs they were assigned.

Basically, his plan had backfired.

The break is stretching longer than he’d anticipated, and apparently he’s the only one bothered by it. Combeferre smiles at his scowls every now and then, but they’ve agreed they can let them relax today. The sky is falling outside, and naturally, nobody feels like working on leaflets or banners.

Besides, it’s not like they’ve got a deadline to stick to.

They’re actually on holidays, so Enjolras tries to push the anxiety to the back of his mind. This is not an assignment. There’s no rush. A little bit of procrastination won’t kill him. Or so Combeferre keeps reminding him every time he runs his hands through his hair.

“Enjolras” Combeferre calls him.

“Yeah, I’m not stressing out, all right?” he snaps, and when he looks to Combeferre, Combeferre is looking in the stairs’ direction, where Grantaire is standing. Enjolras can clearly feel his best friend tensing up next to him, and he places a hand on his thigh below the table in an attempt to reassure him. Of what, he’s not sure.

“Right! Sorry to crash your… meeting like this” Grantaire exclaims, gaining everyone’s attention. He gestures in Courfeyrac’s direction. “But uh- Courf! Think we could talk for a moment?” Grantaire asks, and much to Enjolras’ surprise, looks to Combeferre, as if he’s asking for permission.

Courfeyrac stumbles out of his seat and makes his way towards Grantaire, who is alternating his gaze between Courf and Ferre. He’s waiting for him. Enjolras kicks Combeferre under the table, because he seems to be glued to his seat.

“ _Go_ ” Enjolras mutters under his breath, because Grantaire is still looking in their direction.

Ferre stands up, rather awkwardly. They go down the stairs, and Enjolras is wondering if he should follow, but his thread of thoughts is interrupted by Montparnasse noisily making his way across the room. He stops in front of Bahorel, who doesn’t seem very happy to see him.

For obvious reasons.

“Can I have a sit?” he asks.

Bahorel is staring daggers at him.

He doesn’t answer.

“I’m going to sit” he announces. He turns the chair around and sits on it, facing Bahorel. “So, what’s your name again?”

Although everyone’s trying to act normal, they’re too taken aback to actually succeed at it.

“I’m Montparnasse, the asshole who punched you without reason.” He smiles. “Well, to you at least… but you did punch me back, so hopefully we’re good?” he blurts out, extending a hand for Bahorel to shake. He doesn’t make a move.

Enjolras lets out a sigh and is about to stand up and accept Montparnasse’s apology because he knows Bahorel is too proud and stubborn to just make up like that, but Jehan approaches first and takes the initiative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think (:


	14. We Need To Talk About Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R tries to blend in.

Grantaire thinks it really looked like a good idea in his mind, but now Combeferre and Courfeyrac are in front of him, and he can’t bring himself to talk. His mind is unresponsive, he opens his mouth and hesitates. Combeferre is crossing his arms and looking stern and Grantaire looks down because he doesn’t want to screw this up. This man is Courfeyrac’s boyfriend, and if he wants to make up with Courf he’ll have to grow accustomed to it.

He snaps back to the moment when he hears Eponine placing a glass on the counter with unnecessary force. Clearing his throat, he smiles at Courf, who’s expectant but has so far restrained from saying anything. R internally thanks him for that.

“I’m sorry for last night” he starts, for lack of anything else to say. He shakes his head. No, there really is a lot he wants to say, but somehow the words don’t come out with Combeferre standing there, and R reminds himself again that this is how it’s going to be from now on. “Eponine told me you were asking for me” he gestures to Courf, who seems to have got nearer. That, or Combeferre’s been unconsciously putting distance between them.

“Well, I- you left so quickly-“ Courfeyrac stutters, and takes a step back, back next to Combeferre, who sends his boyfriend a look that R can’t read. “You didn’t let me explain-“

Grantaire interrupts then.

“What’s there to explain?” he smiles, because he needs to make Courfeyrac feel he really doesn’t need an explanation. He’s convinced himself of it too. Accepting the facts and moving on is what he’s made up his mind to do. He lets out a laugh to break the tension, but it has the opposite effect, because Combeferre is frowning now, and Courfeyrac looks to him as though they’re having a silent conversation. “I am happy to see you, Courf” he adds, gesturing in his direction. “And just-” he looks to Combeferre now.

Yes, this had been a bad idea.

He swallows the nod in his throat.

“I’d be lying if I said I _wasn’t_ surprised” he laughs it out, and feels a little triumphant inside when Courfeyrac shows a hint of a smile. “But we’re good” he adds, looking Combeferre in the eye.

The taller man finally uncrosses his arms and Grantaire thinks he sees him soften his frown a little.

“We’re good” he says, and offers his hand to Grantaire, who doesn’t hesitate to shake it. Courfeyrac takes them both by surprise when he jumps in and embraces them in a sloppy hug.

Grantaire feels like a stranger.

It’s not a good feeling, and he’s insanely grateful for Montparnasse coming down the stairs in that exact moment. He reads Grantaire’s expression in the blink of an eye, and approaches. Sliding an arm around his shoulder, he sends one of those charming smiles to the couple standing in front of them.

Combeferre is definitely tense now, and though Courfeyrac seems to want to mirror Montparnasse’s action, he doesn’t. He stands closer to Ferre instead, and Grantaire is almost annoyed by it. He doesn’t think much of it and just slides his arm around Montparnasse’s waist. He needs to show Courf everything’s fine, he can kiss and he can hug and he can be Combeferre’s boyfriend in his presence. Grantaire is not going to run away.

“So, this happened” he says, pointing at Montparnasse with his free hand.

“’This’?! What do you mean ‘this’?” Mont retorts, seemingly offended. He turns to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, with a bright smile that Grantaire can see from the corner of his eye. “I’ve already properly apologized to Bahorel for the-“ he stops to gesture exaggeratedly to his own face, and nods in Combeferre’s direction. “…incident” he ends.  

Combeferre scoffs, and Courfeyrac nudges him in the stomach.

“Don’t worry about it” Combeferre answers then, and he looks sincere and his posture seems to finally relax for the first time. “After all, we did fight back” he shows a smug smile and Grantaire feels Montparnasse’s hand slightly getting heavier on his own shoulder. A sign that it’s time to put an end to the conversation.

As if on cue, the front door of the bar opens and Gavroche steps in noisily, letting out a curse under his breath when he almost falls face-down on the floor due to the pool of water he just stepped in. The boy takes a couple of seconds to assess the situation, and Grantaire understands Gavroche hasn’t seen Courfeyrac since he came back, because he’s running towards them, dangerously swaying on the floor.

After that, there’s a lot of shouting and excitement from both Gavroche and Courfeyrac, the latter’s clothes now completely wet. It’s the first time Grantaire hears Combeferre laugh, and he tricks himself into thinking perhaps Combeferre isn’t a dickhead after all.

 

R doesn’t have the heart to pull his hand from Courf’s grip when he’s so brightly and enthusiastically pulling him toward the stairs. He takes a moment to cherish that grin, the touch of his skin, the overall joy that seems to have taken over him. He takes a moment to savour it all before Courf throws him into the sea of people. Well, they’re really not that many, and Grantaire has never considered himself an introvert, so he wonders if it’s all in his head, the apprehension taking over him.

He sits next to Courf and Feoul- Feal- Fiu- oh, that curly-haired one who’s engrossed in the paper he’s got in front. He starts asking Grantaire about the Natural History Museum and time starts flying away before he knows it.

 

The rain hasn’t stopped, if anything, Grantaire would bet it’s got worse, and he can’t help but groan out loud when he hears thunder. The power won’t come back if the fucking storm doesn’t stop. Courfeyrac snaps his attention to him in a quizzical look when he catches him gazing out the window, R just grins. If it doesn’t stop raining soon, they’re going to have to crush at Eponine’s. Courf grins back and turns to answer something the curly-haired guy asked. Man, is he gonna have to learn French phonetics now?

R’s got a vague idea of what all this is about. He restrains from making any comments because he knows it’s not his place. He hasn’t mingled that much and doubts his criticism will be welcomed with open arms. He knows Enjolras is more likely to use his arms to strangle him if he so much as says anything negative about the frankly ridiculous far-fetched speech he just gave. He’d switch to French in some parts, and though Grantaire couldn’t understand squat, he’d got the gist of it by then. If he’s being honest, he’s sat through the meeting more for Courf’s sake rather than his own.

At some point, he finds himself sitting next to Bahorel, and somehow finds it incredibly difficult to start a conversation with him. It might be because the French guy is pointedly ignoring his person and wholly directing his attention to whatever Courfeyrac is saying in his mother tongue. When Grantaire turns around to see what Montparnasse is doing, he suddenly has the realization that he hasn’t seen his boyfriend for a good couple of hours. He didn’t even follow them up the stairs.

Grantaire stands up and Courfeyrac stops mid-sentence to look at him. R almost lets out a sigh.

“I should be working my shift” he says, pointing to the stairs.

“But there are no clients” Courf frowns.

“Still” R laughs. “There’s stuff to do” he explains. Surely he can escape the meeting and busy himself rinsing glasses or something. Courfeyrac ought to understand he's not going to run away at the first opportunity. 

He winks in Courf’s direction, receives a smile in return, turns around, and knocks heads with none other than the leader in red.

Enjolras doesn’t make a sound as he rubs his forehead, but his stare says it all.

“You really like bumping into me” Grantaire teases. Someone laughs somewhere near, R thinks one of the girls, and Enjolras is clenching his teeth again. Seriously, this guy must get terrible headaches from doing that. He mumbles something in French and Grantaire turns to Courfeyrac for a translation. Courf avoids his eye and Grantaire knows Enjolras just insulted him in French. Fuck, and it sounded sexy.

“Not fair” he says before storming down the stairs.

* * *

“We need to talk about Grantaire.” Montparnasse says, flat and serious, and Eponine looks up from the notebook she’s been staring at for the last minute.

She looks down again.

“Just give me a minute to fi-“

Montparnasse snatches the notebook then.

“Your inventory can wait” he snaps, and sends a look to the stairs. “He had a panic attack. He fucking _passed out_ , and he kept going on about- about darkness and holes and… I swear, I was one minute away from calling a fucking ambulance” He mumbles, his jaw tense.

Mont runs his hands through his hair, and inhales deeply.

“This is not happening again, Ep…” he rubs his eyes now, and it’s Eponine the one who’s shooting the stairs a look when a rather loud exclamation that sounds like Gavroche exclaiming something in French is heard. Montparnasse looks sleep-deprived, mentally exhausted, and is actually sweating, Eponine notices with empathy.

“Look, it won’t” she places a reassuring hand on his. “This is the first step, he’s talking to him” she points to the stairs. “He’ll be fine, and if he isn’t, we’ll always be here-“

“What if we aren’t?” Montparnasse interrupts, looking up and running his hands through his hair, _again_. “If I’d been an hour late that time, he wouldn’t have- the doctor said himself-”

“But you weren’t” Eponine cuts him off rather abruptly. “And you are together now. He hardly spends so much time alone now, Montparnasse”

“And yet he manages to get high under my nose” he grunts.

Eponine hasn’t got an answer for that. She too had been unaware of it.

“He says he won’t do it anymore” he adds, grim. “Like I’m gonna fucking believe him.”

Eponine sighs, she’s about to speak words of reassurance but Grantaire jumps from the stairs and stretches.

“Oh my god, how can they survive up there?” R winces. Montparnasse relaxes his posture and turns around to smile at him.

“Rain isn’t stopping” Mont says.

Grantaire huffs and goes round the counter to pick up the closest piece of cloth he can find. Then he gets closer to the glasses and shrugs at Eponine’s raised eyebrow.

“Which means I’m stuck with you two for the night” she says. “ _and_ Gav.”

Montparnasse lets his head rest on his hands, and Grantaire shoots him a look.

“Why don’t you go and get some sleep? Nobody’s coming in with this weather.”

Mont lets out a guttural noise in response. Grantaire knows he’ll fall asleep on the counter if he doesn’t make Eponine kick him out. 


	15. Abstinence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's taking its toll.

It’s dark and cold. Grantaire shivers and runs his hands over his arms, trying to no avail to emanate warmth. He looks around and sees nothing. His heart is pumping in his chest, at normal speed. But when he stands up and pats the walls that surround him in search for a window, the doorknob, anything that might serve as an escape, he’s shaken to discover there isn’t any. He turns around, round and round, patting desperately, his breath starting to come out in irregular pants.

“Is anyone out there?!” he shouts, his voice echoing in the silence that’s engulfed him. He gets no response. “HELP! ANYONE! PLEASE!”

There’s got to be _something_. He stands on his tiptoes to be able to inspect further, but it’s no point. He’s in too deep, he’ll be lucky if anyone hears him at all, if anyone’s out there at all. “Montparnasse!” he shouts. Mont should be out there. Grantaire looks up, but his eyes only meet more darkness. He falls to his knees and runs his hands through his hair. It’s fine, he needn’t panic. Mont will be here soon, he won’t leave him alone, he won’t.

“Won’t leave me alone, he won’t” he whispers. He can’t stand the silence. Silence means he’s alone. He’s not alone, can’t be. “He won’t leave me alone– he didn’t– he won’t” he keeps repeating the words as a mantra, his hands desperately pulling his hair. He’s alone, Montparnasse is gone. Everyone’s gone, they’ve left him here, he won’t get out, he’ll die, they’ll let him die. “Don’t let me die, don’t go don’t go please don’t go–“ he draws in a sharp breath as he feels something fall on his arm. He draws them from his head and looks up, hoping, believing for a moment that somebody had thrown down a rope, something, _anything_ , from up there. He doesn’t see anyone.

Another one falls on his head. Then another one, and another one, and from a moment to another, they’re everywhere. It’s not help. It’s not a rope. It’s not Montparnasse. _Spiders_.

He can’t bring himself to make a sound, he tries to shake them off, but they keep crawling on top of him, the silence has suddenly been pierced by the sound of hundreds and hundreds of spiders around him, moving, mocking him. He lets out a whine, all his muscles tensed, and covers his head with his hands again. He feels them on his body, crawling under his clothes. His pants have finally turned into panicked cries. They’ve left him alone, this is his punishment.

He’s trembling.

“I’m sorry!” he cries to the sky. “I’m sorry! Please let me out! Let me out!” he screams, voice breaking. Spiders are on his face.

He wakes up with a sharp breath, shaking the spiders off his body, kicking the blankets far away from him, the spiders are everywhere… they’re crawling on his skin, everywhere they’re everywhere and he can’t breathe, they’re suffocating him _take them off take them off take them off there’s no air–_

“Hey” an insistent voice comes from somewhere near, Grantaire doesn’t hear it, too focused on making the invisible spiders go away, _make them get away from him– "_ Hey” Enjolras frowns as he tries to call the American’s attention again, when he doesn’t succeed, he approaches the bed and jumps on top of Grantaire, taking his hands and pinning them down on both sides of his face.

“The spid– the spiders” Grantaire cries out, fidgeting, trying to get his hands free again, and Enjolras feels as though someone’s gripping his gut. Grantaire is strong, but he’s also hyperventilating pretty badly and Enjolras knows he’ll have to go next door and fetch Joly if he doesn’t manage to calm him down.

“There are no spiders” Enjolras says, Grantaire is not looking at him, but sending rather horrified looks to his chest and shaking his head as though that’s gonna make the hallucinations go away.

“Take them off– me please, take them off–"

“Grantaire, there are no spiders” Enjolras gets closer to his face, hoping Grantaire will hear him better then. “There are no spiders, it’s okay” his voice is hoarse, his sleep having been abruptly interrupted by the temporary guest sleeping on the other bed. Grantaire seems to register Enjolras’ presence then, his big green-ish eyes looking at him in bewilderment. He looks down to his chest again. Then back at Enjolras, who’s still pining his hands down. Grantaire isn’t trying to resist anymore, but his breaths are still agitated. “See?” The French man loosens the grip. “No spiders” he says in a whisper, his golden hair raining down, almost caressing Grantaire’s nose.

Silence settles down between them.

Enjolras is suddenly aware of the temperature in Grantaire’s body. It’s not hot enough to be considered a fever, but it’s not supposed to be that hot either, right? Should he fetch Joly?

“You’re too hot” he mumbles before he realizes. Grantaire is still staring up at him, his chest going up and down, his breath closer to steadiness. Enjolras reminds himself that he barely knows this guy and that it’ll be incredibly weird if he lies down and hugs him right now. He really looks like he needs a hug, and Enjolras has never denied a hug to any of his friends when they’ve needed it. But Grantaire is not his friend. More of an acquaintance really, perhaps he should call Courf, seeing as he’s the closest thing to a friend Grantaire has in the house. But he doesn’t want to leave, for some reason, doesn’t want to move, get too far, because there’s something in Grantaire’s eyes that’s preventing him from doing so. Like a silent prayer, a silent request.

Enjolras runs his tongue over his cracked lips, suddenly aware of his own warmth. The body under him tenses. Right, it’s the middle of summer, that ought to be the reason for Grantaire’s high body temperature. He’s sticky too.

Oh god, he’s still on top of Grantaire.

He gets off the bed sloppily, muttering out apologies.

Grantaire stays down for a few more seconds. Has another round of looks on the bed sheets, as if assessing the danger, and sits on the bed, clearing up his throat and swaying his legs off the bed to put on his ripped jeans.

Enjolras stares at his back for a moment before picking up the covers Grantaire kicked off to the floor earlier. He doubts the guy is putting on his pants for a trip to the bathroom at –he checks on the bedside clock– 3:43am.

He watches as Grantaire puts on his converse without saying a word, cleans the sweat of his brow with the sleeve of the shirt he borrowed from Feuilly, gets up and walks to the door. Enjolras opens his mouth to say something, because surely Courfeyrac will have his head in the morning should he let Grantaire leave like this while there’s a storm outside, but the man is gone in the blink of an eye. He’s left standing there, having an inner debate. Why should he care? He’ll just go back to sleep and tell Courf Grantaire had been gone by the time he’d woken up.

 

Grantaire tries to be silent as he makes his way down the massive stairs leading to the first floor. He’s being over cautious, really, with the heavy rain, there’s little to no chance of being heard. He feels as though someone’s choking him. He needs air, so he makes his way to the backyard and slides the door to make his way outside, the sound of the rain piercing his ears.

He gasps.

He can still feel the faint crawling of the spiders all over him.

Letting out a shiver, he sits down on the grass, the cold rain waking his senses from their stupor.

He never should’ve come here. Why did he agree to it? Why did he agree to sleep in the same room as Enjolras? Fuck, he should’ve taken the couch – _don’t be ridiculous, you didn’t come all the way here to sleep on the couch–_ or even one of the guest rooms on the third floor, there were a bunch of empty rooms on the third floor – _you’re not sleeping up there alone when we’re all down here_ –. He lets out a sigh. Courfeyrac had got rather picky during those four years. He laughs bitterly and runs his hands through his tangled hair. This is all Gavroche’s fault. The little twat couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Ugh, do they have to stay with us?” he’d groaned.

“ _Gavroche_ ” Eponine had scolded him.

“But Montparnasse snores!”

“How dare– you little rat! I don’t snore!”

“It’s only one night, now shut it.” His sister had sent him a warning look, but Gavroche was already used to that look, it didn’t have much effect on him anymore.

“Yeah” the boy had muttered under his breath. “One night every night there’s a fucking storm”

“You can stay at my place” Cosette had appeared out of the girl’s bathroom, and everything had gone downhill from there. Grantaire couldn’t manage to make Montparnasse come along, and he had definitely no chance of getting away after their little electricity problem reached Courfeyrac’s ears –thank you Gavroche–. Mont had apparently promised Eponine he’d work extra hours the next day to make up for his absence that day, and Cosette’s house –a bloody mansion, Grantaire had learnt later– was too far for his liking, having to leave the motorbike at the bar thanks to the weather conditions.

R had had no chance but to agree. It was only one night after all, and there wouldn’t be much more socializing, he figured, as everybody was too exhausted to do anything but take a shower and hit the pillow, with the exception of Gavroche –oh yeah, they’d naturally had to bring him along as well, though he sort of jumped in of his own volition, Courf was thrilled to have him around– who Grantaire had just seen had passed out on the living room’s couch after who knows how many hours of Mario Kart.

To make the long story short, Golden Lock’s room had happened to be the only room with a spare bed apart from the inhabited third floor, and seeing as neither Courfeyrac nor Feuilly took no for an answer, he’d end up sleeping less than two metres away from the French man, wearing a night shirt that didn’t belong to him and smelled strongly of clothes softener, almost an unfamiliar scent to his nostrils.

But none of that was relevant right now. What was relevant was the fact that Grantaire had just freaked out in front of Golden Locks and Golden Locks would probably spill the beans and Grantaire couldn’t have Courfeyrac knowing about this. Hell, not even Montparnasse was going to know this, not after what had happened today at home- shit- what the fuck is happening to him? Panic attacks? Nightmares?

 _Spiders_.

He shudders.

It must be the drugs. What else, if not?

He hasn’t taken any.

It’s already taking its toll on him, and it’s only been 24 hours.

Oh, shit. Shit shit shit.

This can’t happen again. Not in front of Montparnasse. This might’ve been just a freak-out for Golden Locks, right? He doesn’t know Grantaire. For all that he knows, it was just a normal nightmare. Right, Golden Locks doesn’t know what’s triggered it. However, Montparnasse will, and he’ll bug him until the end of times if he hears of another symptom. Will make him go into rehab again. This can’t happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know your opinions! (:


	16. Over-thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never-ending night, awkward breakfast.

Grantaire doesn’t get a wink of sleep. He doesn’t know what time it is when he goes back to bed, he simply knows he won’t be getting any sleep in the forthcoming hours. His hair is dripping water and Feuilly’s nightshirt lies in a corner, a wet bump. It’s dark inside, lightning has stopped so he’s got to find his way towards the bed without any light. Enjolras’ breathing coming from the other bed is steady and Grantaire doesn’t want to cope with this guy right now. He might have questions, and Grantaire wants nothing but to be left alone. Unfortunately, he can’t just leave in the middle of the night without seeing Courfeyrac or thanking Cosette for her hospitality, he’s got manners. Otherwise, he’d be out of here.

Enjolras stirs on the bed and Grantaire tenses up. He’d been staring at the ceiling but closes his eyes now, as if Enjolras were able to notice he’s awake from the other side of the room even when they’re lying in darkness. He hears a sigh and it doesn’t take more than a minute before the steady breathing starts again. Grantaire opens his eyes and rolls to a side, facing the window that he cannot see, but knows is there.

It’s happening all over again. The nightmares, the uneasiness, and the insomnia. He knows he wasn’t able to deal with any of this in the past, why should it be any different now? Nothing’s changed. Courfeyrac might be back, and it seems to Grantaire he’s trying again, to be the friend who brought joy and light. He doesn’t know this Grantaire isn’t the same one that nervously acknowledged his feelings that autumn night at the planetarium. There is not space for joy nor light in his life. Not anymore.

R rolls over again, his throat dry.

Grantaire can’t help but think that a certain amount of shitty things have occurred since Courf left him high and dry. He’d never taken drugs before –which doesn’t mean he’d never been encouraged to, only that he’d had enough brain back then to turn those stranger’s invitations down–.  _Brain_. He snorts and rolls over again, lying on his back.

He’d never had brain. He hadn’t done drugs because Courfeyrac had been there. What would Courf think? What would Courf say, how would he react? Courfeyrac looked after him, he used to be the only person apart from Eponine that actually gave a crap about him. Grantaire wasn’t going to pay him that way, he didn’t deserve it. But then again, did _Montparnasse_ deserve it? R had never thought of this when he’d been shooting up, there hadn’t been guiltiness involved, as there should’ve been, no second thoughts, there’d only been need.

He’d approached the guy, who’d smiled as though he was proud of himself for finally cracking another one up. Hooking another one up. He was triumphant, at last. Grantaire knows had Courfeyrac _been_ there, none of it would’ve happened. Montparnasse stepped in a little late, and though he didn’t put a stop to it, Grantaire _did_ feel a little cornered.

Montparnasse was a rebel, a rogue, a badass as he liked to call himself, but he wasn’t _that_ kind of person. Of course, Grantaire learnt this later. That it wasn’t superficial. It wasn’t just a one-night-stand, a ‘friend with benefits’ sort of situation. It’d evolved into something else, and Grantaire knew Mont would soon learn how much of a fuck-up he was. He knew Montparnasse wouldn’t leave him to his own devices, but he also knew that he would never make things right either, try as he might. The only person capable of making things right was long gone. R never told Montparnasse about the drugs. He’d never intended for him to find out.

He did find out, of course, in the worst of ways.

Grantaire knows he wouldn’t have been able to do this behind Courf’s back, it would’ve felt strongly like stabbing him on the back. Why did he do this to Montparnasse? They didn’t really know each other that well then, but it got serious quicker than Grantaire thought it would. He could’ve made an effort, quit, he still had a chance of coming out clean. But he didn’t. He didn’t because deep inside he knew he needed it to cope.

Montparnasse would never be Courfeyrac, he wasn’t, not then, not now. Grantaire needed something else, stronger, a firm push, something he could truly rely on, because Montparnasse could just leave. Leave as Courfeyrac had done, and what was he supposed to do then? Tie a rope around his neck, end it all? No, he wouldn’t dare. He was _that_ weak.

So he held onto the only thing that he knew would always be there for him, make everything right, never abandon him.

He is here _now_ because he _held_ onto it. This is what happens when he tries to back away. He can’t, he can’t back away without being engulfed by reality. He hasn’t got a proper job, he hasn’t spoken to his parents in the last six years, he’s got friends he doesn’t deserve, and he’s still in love with a person he knows will never return his feelings.

Four years.

He blinks the tears away and rolls on the bed again, facing the window, and tries to sniff without making much noise.

He’s an addict.

He’s a drug addict.

And he’s not sorry. And he doesn’t regret it, and he hopes Mont will forgive him but he can’t, he can’t stop, he doesn’t understand. Courfeyrac wouldn’t understand either. How could they? They’re not him. They let go. And R is scared, because Courf is trying hard to go back to how things were, and Grantaire feels it will never happen, which means there really _is_ no way of getting out of it. There’s no mending it.

Grantaire can’t. He can’t let go. It’s the only thing he has. Courfeyrac has lots of friends, he’s got a boyfriend, one that he really loves. Grantaire doesn’t love Montparnasse. He’s a great guy, an incredible, irreplaceable friend, he supports him, but Grantaire’s heart is not _with_ him. Does Mont love _him_? Because that’s the last thing he needs. He knows how shitty unrequited love feels and he doesn’t want to– none of this is fair– to anyone.

He lets out a cry and muffles it with the pillow when he realizes the path his thoughts are taking. Not to Montparnasse, it isn’t. Not for Courfeyrac. This is all wrong, he can’t pretend it isn’t anymore.

He is _not_ fucking over Courfeyrac and he can’t just let him in again and pretend everything’s fine. He _can’t_ tell Montparnasse he’s not doing drugs and promise he’ll stop when he knows he can’t, doesn’t want to, _won’t_ stop. And he _can’t_ stay with him because he’ll try to help him, and Grantaire cannot be helped, none of this can be fixed, he might as well give in once and for all. If he’s drowning, he doesn’t want to take down anyone with him. They don’t need to endure this too. He can’t let them stand alongside him in a fight he knows he’ll never win, he can’t hold them back like that. Not anymore.

Oh, god. He can’t believe he’s actually thinking this. Is he really ready to let Montparnasse go? Is he really ready to let Courf go? He knows he can’t keep this on forever. He’s tired of staying in the same place for the sake of others, tired of keeping himself upright to try and deceive the truth. He wants to stop, stop fighting. There’s people who are meant to be successful, and there’s people who are not. And he definitely is one of the latters.

Oh, if only he could have a fix now. It’d make everything all right.

Yes, an addict indeed.

* * *

Of course, everything seems less haunting in daylight. The rain has stopped, sunlight has started to creep through thick clouds, birds are out of their shelters and chirping. Courf’s laughter takes him back for a moment before he remembers that he’s not 22 anymore, they’re not sprawled over his bed watching a film, no, what is really happening is Grantaire is a drug addict and desperate for a fix but pretending he’s just tired because he doesn’t want to drag any more attention to him. Enjolras has already sent him too many scrutinizing looks for his comfort, and he’s been pointedly avoiding the blond all morning in an attempt to pretend he didn’t fucking wake him up in the middle of the night because he was being attacked by disgusting and non-existent spiders.

He hasn't had much luck with that, seeing as they're seated next to each other.

Maybe if he pretends none of that happened, Enjolras will think he was the one hallucinating.

“Toast?” Joly offers, startling him.

“Thanks” he says, though it sounds more like an exhausted sigh, and takes the bread.

He looks around the table. Butter, jelly, nutella, honey, some weird-coloured shit he doesn’t even know, it makes his stomach turn. He looks at the toast for some seconds, it’s perfectly toasted, but it’s almost painful to open his mouth and chew it. He tries hard not to make a face. _It’s just bread_ , he tells himself, _you can eat bread, you’ve eaten bread before, what is wrong with you?_

“Are you okay?” Joly asks in his cute accent, leaning onto his side to get a better look of his face. Grantaire nods too quickly.

“Perfect” he says, after swallowing the food, and obliges himself to sip some orange juice from that glass Musichetta placed in front of him ten minutes ago. She also peeps at him from her seat next to Joly.

“You don’t _look_ perfect” Courf appears from behind, and suddenly there’s a hand against his forehead. Grantaire fights the urge to recoil. Joly seems to be startled by the situation, and it’s him the one who zaps Courf’s hand away to replace it with his.

Grantaire does lean far from his reach this time, and consequently ends up almost on Enjolras’ lap.

“For god’s sake, I am not sick!” he says, a little bit too harshly, and pretends he didn’t just catch Combeferre’s eyes on the left corner of the table. Pretends he didn’t just see him frown in disapproval. Wow, isn’t he the perfect over-protective boyfriend.

“All right, no need to get upset!” Courf says in his over-dramatic, high-pitched voice. “You haven’t changed at all” he adds.

Grantaire snorts.

“How would _you_ know?” he answers, and regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth.

It’s not only Combeferre now, Bahorel is in front of him looking like he wants to stab him with the knife he’s holding, and even Feuilly snaps his head up at the comment. Grantaire thinks he really must’ve sounded like an asshole if Feuilly, gentle and friendly Feuilly who lent him a clean shirt to sleep in, just looked at him as though he wanted to throw the toaster at his head. Gently and probably not intending to knock him out, but throw it nonetheless.

That used to be his reaction, too, when some dickhead would try to hit on Courfeyrac. He would _protect_ him.

Now he’s attacking him.

He drops the toast on the plate in front of him.

“I’m sorry” he apologizes and runs his hands through his face. “I didn’t mean that”

 _Yes you did_.

 _They know you did_.

“It’s okay” Courfeyrac answers instantly, letting a nervous laugh at the end.

_It’s not, he’s lying._

Grantaire doesn’t dare turn around and face him, offer a proper apology.

“I had a crappy night” is what he says as an explanation. Then he realizes that given the fact he’s slept here, and spent the previous night in these people’s company, that comment is really not the best one he could’ve come up with. “I mean– I didn’t mean– What I mean is–“

 _Shit_.

“Hey, chill out!” Cosette exclaims, and her French accent is so strong and that expression is so not-French that it almost sounds comical. “I shouldn’t have paired you up with Enjolras, I completely forgot about his snoring!”

Next to him, Enjolras lets out a little noise that sounds like an offended sort of whine. Grantaire busies himself drinking down the juice to avoid having to answer. Enjolras doesn’t snore. He’d actually slept like an angel –looked like one whilst doing it too, the sun creeping through the curtains was to blame, not that Grantaire had spent his whole morning staring at him, really he hadn’t–. Somehow, this gorgeous French young lady just managed to save him from further self-embarrassment. The conversation is as good as over, Courfeyrac has returned to his seat next to Combeferre –Grantaire has made a point not to look in that direction unless strictly necessary–, Enjolras has gone back to reading the paper – _why is he reading it? He doesn’t even_ live _here–_ and luckily, Joly has stopped sending furtive –no they’re not– concerned looks in his direction.

Bahorel still stares at him and chews on his toast with unnecessary force, fixing his gaze on Grantaire as if the message isn’t crystal clear: ‘I am chewing this toast but what I’d really like to be chewing is your heart.’ R thinks back, and realizes that he really hasn’t done anything to this dude. Montparnasse punched him, that’s right, Montparnasse _apologized_ , but what has _he_ done?

No fucking idea, but Bahorel just flicked the finger at him and disguised it as a nose-scratch.

Grantaire truly lets out a laugh.

Is he serious?

“I am getting slightly concerned about you” Enjolras says, and Grantaire turns to him with a grin, not quite over what he just witnessed.

“Is that so, Golden Locks?”

Enjolras clenches his jaw and turns his attention to the newspaper instantly.

“No, I was lying.” He retorts angrily, and then a bunch of French words follow it.

“If you’re going to insult me, I’d like to have the chance to defend myself, thank you.”

Enjolras smiles then, but doesn’t tear his eyes from the paper.

Grantaire goes back to staring at his toast. He manages to finish half of it in the next five minutes, which is a real achievement given the fact that his throat seems to be temporarily shut. He made the mistake of looking at Gavroche –who’s engulfing way too much chocolate to be healthy, should he be doing something? Eponine will have his head later if he doesn’t– but most importantly, is seated two spaces away from Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who seem utterly oblivious to the fact that they’re not the only human beings at the table. Chances are all their friends are already used to the cheesiness and the hugs and smiles and touches, it’s as though they’re not even there eating each other faces off, but Grantaire is completely new to it, and if he wasn’t hungry ten minutes before, now the toast is staring up at him definitely going: ‘One more bite and you’ll throw up.’

“Eat that, unless you want Joly on your ass all day.” Enjolras says, out of the blue. Grantaire is grateful to have a reason to look on the opposite direction of the demonstrations of affection.

Grantaire snorts.

“Can’t I have _you_ on my ass all day?” is what he answers, god knows why.

Enjolras chokes on his coffee, somehow managing to spit most of it on Grantaire’s face.

Silence takes over the room, he is frozen still with Enjolras’ spit now dripping down his face.

 _Yep, this is payback._ He thinks. _I deserved that._

“Aaaaand we’re even” he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know your opinions, people! It's really what keeps me going (:  
> Hope you enjoyed the usual angst, and then hopefully not so much of the usual angst?  
> I try, I tryy! But the angst is stronger!


	17. Doctors In The House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R gets to know everybody a little better.

Grantaire hasn’t been talking, despite Courfeyrac’s insistence. He keeps trying to involve him in conversation, it’s exhausting, honestly –he’d never been bothered by Courf talking to him before–, but Grantaire limits his answers to short and up-to-the-point sentences. He might give too much away. He’s already told them about his teaching, and answered Bossuet’s enthusiastic comments about the tattoos on his arms –deliberately failing to mention where he got them, he doesn’t want this guy to stumble into a shitty and shady art studio and be offered a bag of cocaine, that would blow up his whole cover- and has even managed to chime in with a few questions himself, mostly with the intention of directing the attention away from his personal life.

Grantaire learns that Cosette is actually Jean Valjean’s daughter, that astronomy teacher Courfeyrac used to go on and on about whenever they met after school. He’s somehow involved in French politics, because apparently –and Grantaire feels like he should already know all of this, perhaps from four years ago, if he’d been actually listening to Courfeyrac’s ranting- he actually _is_ from France. He never bothered to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

He learns a little bit more about the group. Perhaps a little bit _too_ much. He learns that Joly is an EMT, and Combeferre is an actual, fucking graduated and currently on a break from his internship, doctor.

He stops paying attention to the conversation when he hears that, his mind momentarily leaving his body. Combeferre’s disapproving frowns, the fact that he hasn’t actually said a word to Grantaire throughout the whole morning, he _undoubtedly_ dislikes him –Grantaire knows that’s not going to change. He and Combeferre will never get on well- and R tries not to panic and makes an effort to stop feeling so self-conscious.

It doesn’t work.

So, he’s a drug addict who’s sitting next to an emergency medical technician –basically, the people who _show up_ and _bring you back to life_ when you’ve overdosed and passed out in the middle of a club, or, in _his_ case, in the middle of a bathroom- and less than five metres away from an actual doctor-to-be. Isn’t _that_ the icing of the cake? And here he was thinking he should try to approach Combeferre and offer him a flag of truce –for Courf’s sake-.

They keep repeating they’re here on holiday though, to relax and relieve stress –he instantly thinks that’s not working at all for the blonde sitting next to him- and to forget about their duties, and Grantaire hopes that’s true, hopes that they’re too busy enjoying their time away to notice that there’s a junkie at the table.

Gavroche is making his hair stand on end. He’s still sitting the closest to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who don’t stop chatting with him. R knows Eponine’s told Gavroche he’s not to mention anything related to the incident, but Gavroche’s a kid, he can forget, he can blurt out things without even noticing, he can screw everything up.

“You’re staring” Enjolras mentions. Grantaire snaps his attention to him.

“What?” he blurts out. Enjolras’ lowers his voice before saying:

“Stop staring” he says, not meeting his eyes. It doesn’t sound rude, but gentle, and R is about to tell him he was just checking up on Gavroche, making sure the nutella was far from his reach –at least Combeferre’s playing his doctor role with him, he placed the pot of chocolate on the opposite side of the table some minutes ago-, but Enjolras has gone back to reading the newspaper.

“So, American boy!” Bahorel exclaims, throwing a piece of bread in his direction. It lands on the plate before him, next to the half-eaten toast that Grantaire didn’t have the will to finish ingesting, despite Enjolras’ advice that he should. He looks up to Bahorel, who’s smiling in his direction, pleased with himself. “What’s a good place to party?” he nods in Grantaire’s direction.

He’s not really sure if he likes Bahorel or not. He looks like a cool dude, almost reminds him of Montparnasse a little. It’s the first time he’s actually talked to Grantaire since they met.

“Uh…” he thinks, and is about to blurt out ‘I don’t know’ when he realizes that’ll be very stupid. He and Montparnasse never go clubbing, not since a long time, anyway, not since the club they used to frequent got raided in the middle of all the fun and six people were charged with drug-selling charges. The ‘incident’ happened shortly after, because one of those people was Grantaire’s dealer, and he hadn’t got a fix for almost a week. When he found Jason in the boxing club’s bathroom selling methamphetamine to a kid who was about to have a match, he spent his weekly wage on a bunch of pills that he swallowed down at the first opportunity, he was desperate.

Needless to say, Montparnasse stopped being keen on clubbing since that day. Their shifts changed, R started working at night. He took up the teaching and kept himself busy. He never stopped taking it though.

“You don’t know any?” Bahorel asks, raising his eyebrows. Grantaire realizes he’s zoned out.

“There’s this new place called ‘The Supernova’…” he says, and the conversation with Bahorel spirals from there. Grantaire’s only been at The Supernova once, and it wasn’t a very nice experience given the fact that he’d swallowed down a killer drink and thrown up on Montparnasse’s new shoes shortly after. It’d been on New Year’s Eve. He wasn’t high that night, but he’d been going easy on the drinks and his tolerance had definitely gone down too.

The club is decent –which obviously means: with a low number of drug-dealers in it-. There’s always _someone_ , really. You just have to look for them. But Grantaire supposes it’s safe. It’s not like they’re going to see some dude getting high on the dance floor and blame it on him, call him a drug-addict just because he recommended the place. That was absurd. Anyhow, there’s a low chance that’ll happen, The Supernova was a relatively ‘drug-safe’ place last time he stepped in it.

“Will you guys come?” Jehan turns to him, expectantly, hopeful. This kid is lovely, Grantaire thinks. He hasn’t known any of these people for more than 48 hours, but he’s already got the gist of every one of them. Bossuet and Joly go together, as in a sort of pack. R sees them holding hands, mumbling to each other, practically glued to each other’s bodies, all the time. He frankly thought they were dating, but then he was thrown back by Musichetta’s behaviour, and thought she was dating _Bossuet_ and that Bossuet and Joly’s relationship was a sort of brotherly one, a bromance sort of thing. Then he saw her kissing _Joly_ and gave up. He doesn’t understand what’s going on there and is too tired to figure it out at the moment.

Cosette and Marius seem to be the perfect couple, one of those taken out of a ridiculously-cheesy and far-fetched Nicholas Sparks novels that Eponine likes to mock. He doesn’t want to use the word ‘annoying’, because that one’s clearly reserved for Courfeyrac and Combeferre, so he goes for ‘unnerving’. It feels like when you put too much sugar in your coffee but you don’t want to throw it down the sink so you just bear with it and make a face every time you swallow it.

Then there’s Enjolras, oh, Enjolras he has no idea how to describe. Apart from dream-like and unreachable, with his prince-charming look, Golden Locks is serious and passionate –he’d learnt that from their first encounter- but what’s been puzzling him throughout the whole morning, is how he seems to be looking after him, in a way. It’s not ‘looking after’, he knows, they don’t even know each other, so it must have something to do with last night’s issue, he thinks. Yes, unfortunately Enjolras remembers it clearly, and though he hasn’t brought it up, his actions give him away. Well, he shouldn’t assume, should he? Perhaps this is the guy’s personality, it’s just he can’t help but think there’s certain pity behind all his words. Grantaire’s used to pity.

He’s still not sure about Bahorel. Again, it’s like a tug of war. Like hate-love conversations, because he looks and sounds angry, but he also looks like he’s pulling Grantaire’s leg. He gives up on him too, as he did with the whole trio situation. He’ll have to spend more time with Bahorel to be certain of where he stands.

Of course, there’s Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He’s not sure what they’ve been doing because he’s spent most of the time ignoring the left corner of the table after Enjolras told him he was ‘staring’. He remembers Courfeyrac being all cautions around Ferre last night, as long as _he_ was in the room anyway. Grantaire had found himself wishing he would stop being such an idiot and just act like a normal person around his boyfriend. Now, he’s regretting it. Courf doesn’t seem to notice either, which Grantaire is grateful for. They’re probably so accustomed to being this affectionate around their friends and now that Grantaire is just one more of them at the table –is he?- they probably don’t even care. He knows Combeferre wouldn’t care, but Courfeyrac? R just assumes he forgets he’s there sometimes.

Feuilly and Jehan are seated next to each other and Grantaire doesn’t need to interact much with each other to reach a conclusion. They’re the always-friendly, kind and gentle sort of people. More than Courfeyrac even. Courfeyrac had always been energetic, there was a certain passion about him. Jehan and Feuilly seem to lack it, but they don’t need it. They’re quiet, on the right corner, mostly smiling at others and silently listening rather than taking part in conversations. Jehan’s birthday is in two days and Grantaire, for some odd reason, feels like The Supernova isn’t the ideal place to celebrate it. He feels tempted to recommend a quieter place, something like a park, but then he remembers he’s got no clue about parks. You don’t find drug dealers in a park.

“I don’t know” he answers, not wanting to turn down the invitation at once. “I have to work” he smiles apologetically. Jehan makes a pout and the next question throws Grantaire off a little:

“What about Montparnasse?”

Of course, it’d be impolite to invite Grantaire only.

“Yeah, he doesn’t work… I’ll let him know.”

“Surely you can get one free night, R!” Courfeyrac chimes in. Grantaire turns to look at him internally wishing he hadn’t talked to him, but he’s surprised to see Combeferre and him are seated like normal people, next to each other, and not even hugging anymore. “I’ll talk to Eponine” he adds, obviously confident he’ll make it happen.

“It’s not her call” Grantaire says, because it really isn’t. If he skips work he’ll just get her in trouble with her parents and risk getting fired. He’s about to say something shitty about Eponine’s parents when he remembers Gavroche is in the room. “I really can’t skip my shift”

“Okay, then we won’t do it at night!” Feuilly says, Grantaire looks at him now. “People go clubbing in the day, don’t they?”

They won’t let him off the hook, will they?

“I also work in the afternoon” he tries.

“It’ll be on a Saturday, you silly!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “You don’t give classes on weekends!”

Grantaire wants to say that yes, he does, come up with some kind of excuse, invent some kind of coaching class, but he’s an art teacher, so he gives in before it starts looking like he’s pointedly trying to avoid it. “That’s right I don’t” he laughs, and he’s grateful for the yawn that chooses that exact moment to escape his lips, making his attitude seem genuine, they can blame his lack of enthusiasm on his lack of sleep, he figures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've almost finished the next chapter, can't wait for you guys to read it!  
> Let me know your opinions (:


	18. Bad Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is sober. It doesn't last long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Three chapters within a week? Yay!

“This place brings me bad memories” Montparnasse says, placing the helmet on top of the bike’s seat and glancing at his feet. Grantaire laughs.

“I promise that will not happen again” he answers. He’s not going to drink tonight, he wants to have as much control of himself as he can manage, and Montparnasse’s aware of this. “Come on, they should be inside already” Grantaire says, as if Courfeyrac hasn’t already sent four texts to Montparnasse’s mobile to make sure they were coming, that they found the way to their table, and that they were coming, _everyone’s waiting for you are you coming?_ Grantaire sighs and takes Mont’s hand, holding onto it as though Montparnasse’s his oxygen supply and he’s about to take a dive in deep, dark waters.

He shouldn’t have doubted Courfeyrac’s persuasive skills. Though Grantaire was _sure_ that had he not actually crossed paths with Mrs Thenardier, he wouldn’t have managed to pull it off. Bahorel had argued that clubbing during the day would ‘kill the vibe’ and ‘not be the same’ –R wasn’t sure if he should be grateful for it or mad, and made a mental note to confront Bahorel later on and ask him what his bloody problem was-.

It’d only taken two tries to get Mrs Thenardier to agree. Grantaire had forgotten how it worked. They were making money thanks to the group’s little meetings on the second floor, the woman wasn’t going to risk pissing Courfeyrac off and losing that –as if Courf would just leave because she didn’t agree to give her employees a free day to go partying-. The fact that they’d given Eponine the chance to come along, was enough proof of it. She’d turned down the invitation at first, but Cosette and Musichetta were annoyingly insistent and Grantaire himself ended up chiming in because if there was a person who deserved a break, that was Eponine.

The place is packed, the music is loud –some Coldplay song Grantaire can’t exactly place is playing- and they make their way around the edges hoping not to get bathed in some shiny red alcoholic mix before they even make it to their destination. Montparnasse doesn’t let go of his hand at any moment, as they push their way through an overly-excited group of females who avert their eyes and are about to launch themselves onto them when they notice they’re clutching each other’s hands. Montparnasse makes a sort of apologetic shrug to which Grantaire laughs, and the redhead stumbles back to the group on her high heels.

Enjolras is the only person at the table when they get there, with a can of something that R doesn’t recognize in one hand and the other one gracefully re-arranging a lock of blonde hair behind his ear. He offers a kind smile when he and Montparnasse finally have a sit next to him, and says something that neither of them catch, obviously, because the volume of the music is practically deafening. He points to the crowd in front of them and Grantaire can easily spot Eponine dancing with Feuilly, and Jehan sort of jumping around rhythmically too. He smiles in return to Montparnasse’s grin.

Grantaire thinks he spots Courfeyrac near them, but he stops looking when Bahorel makes his way towards them almost juggling with two glasses on one hand and three bear cans on the other, which he places on top of the table already full of empty recipients. He acknowledges Grantaire and Montparnasse with a short nod before taking a sit next to Enjolras and putting an arm around his shoulder in the most casual motion. R wonders if he’s missed something when Bahorel mumbles something in his ear, but he thinks that he really doesn’t want to know the answer, and he looks back to the dance floor where Eponine is letting out a laugh in response to something _Feuilly_ just said in her ear.

“What’s going on there?” Montparnasse asks him, looking in the same direction, rather amused.

Grantaire smiles.

“ _Something_ , I hope!” he answers. Feuilly seems like a great guy and it is high time Eponine does something about her dating record, which is white clean.

Cosette and Marius appear from a corner, stumbling towards the table side-hugging each other and laughing merrily as they ever do, Grantaire supposes. They wave happily at them and sit on the end of the sofa-like seats that surround the table. Montparnasse moves closer when Joly flops down next to him, shaking his hands in the air and causing little drops of water to fall on him. He apologizes immediately, and Montparnasse shakes his head dismissively. Bossuet and Musichetta emerge from the crowd and take him back, not after trying really hard to drag Grantaire along. He turns down the invitation promising to dance with them later –hopefully they’ll be too busy drunkenly kissing each other to remember it-.

He’s got no intention of ‘hitting the dance floor’, something that cannot be said of Montparnasse, who starts banging his head at the rhythm of the music not long after. When Jehan comes to try and get them both to get up and follow him to where Eponine and Feuilly are dancing way closer than they’d been when they saw them earlier, Grantaire practically pushes Montparnasse from his seat. Just because he’s going to have a shitty night doesn’t mean Montparnasse can’t enjoy himself, he figures. Besides, Jehan instantly stops tugging at _his_ hand and focuses solely on dragging Montparnasse behind him, which Grantaire counts as a win-win.

He doesn’t get to enjoy it for much, though, because when Courfeyrac hugs him from behind and jumps over the seat to land next to him – _what the fuck, is he drunk already?_ \- he knows he won’t get away tonight without dancing.

“You made it!” he exclaims, over the music. Grantaire follows Combeferre cautiously with his eyes. He takes a seat next to Bahorel, who’s opening his third bear can and swallowing it earnestly. “Where’s Montparnasse?” Courfeyrac exclaims in his ear again, Grantaire points to his boyfriend who’s smiling at some weird dance-move Jehan just made. “What are you drinking?!” Courf points to the table.

Grantaire hasn’t drunk anything yet, but he settles for a can of bear, which he thinks is possibly the least alcoholic-drink available. Courfeyrac frowns at him funnily, seemingly surprised by the fact that Grantaire isn’t in various states of inebriation already, within thirty minutes of having arrived. Yes, Courf is drunk, and Grantaire can’t help but glance in Combeferre’s direction with a look akin to worry when he swallows down another one of those blue shots which he knows by experience are pretty strong. Grantaire frowns and makes some sort of gesture that he thinks universally means to be ‘drunk shitless’. Combeferre takes a look at the empty glasses on the table in front of them and much to Grantaire’s relief, comes to sit next to his boyfriend.

Good, he’s still got some sense in him, Grantaire thinks. He _does_ sway a little bit before settling down, and R takes a look around, fearing he and Montparnasse are the only sober people in the group. He locks eyes with Enjolras, who has a glass to his lips and is staring at him intently.

Grantaire looks away after five seconds. Then looks back, and Enjolras is still staring at him almost in a fierce and prying way as though he’s in deep thought. He runs his tongue on his lips without looking away and Grantaire can’t help but literally mouth a ‘what the fuck’ as he looks away for the second time. Is Golden Locks fucking flirting with him?

 _No he’s not, he’s just looking at me._ Last time he checked that didn’t count as flirting. _He must be drunk._ Because there’s no way a guy that looks like Enjolras is flirting with him.

He shoots a look to where he last saw Montparnasse, but he’s no longer there, and neither is Jehan. He starts feeling a little lost. It’s stupid, but he can’t stop the feeling from building up inside. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are getting quite comfortable next to him. He snatches the can of bear he opened earlier, swallows half of it in one go and pulls himself on his feet, desperate to put some distance between him and them. He doesn’t care that he looks incredibly suspicious taking off like that.

“’Taire!” he hears, but pretends he doesn’t, because it’s Courf’s voice, and if he had some sense of consideration he would’ve stopped rubbing himself against Combeferre whilst he was less than a centimetre away. He throws himself into the sea of people, trying to spot Montparnasse’s black leather jacket, but the colourful lights are too blinding to see anything. He turns to where he thinks the exit is, and starts making his way across the dancefloor, mostly unsuccessfully.

The smell of alcohol and sweat is starting to turn his stomach, and he feels relief flowing through his body when he spots a familiar flowery-patterned fluorescent shirt to his left. He instantly wishes he hadn’t spotted it. His body reacts before his mind does, making him turn around and start making his way through on the opposite direction before being seen.

After a ten-minute struggle, he emerges out of the dance floor and collapses on a seat in front of the barman, exhausted. He’s about to order something that he knows he’ll regret having later, when he catches a familiar face at the end of the bar. Jason is already looking at him when Grantaire notices his presence, a drink in hand, the usual smirk on his face. Grantaire clenches his teeth and looks away. No, he can’t. Montparnasse is here, _everyone’s_ here.

The barman places a blue and silver can in front of him, and Grantaire’s about to tell him he hasn’t ordered it when he notices it’s already open. The words die in his mouth and he shoots a glance in Jason’s direction, who’s now openly grinning at him.

 _Fuck it_ , _he’s too busy getting his tongue down Jehan’s throat anyway_.

He snatches the can and empties it in record time. It’s been five minutes and he’s not feeling it, so he looks in Jason’s direction again, in an attempt to get his message across, though he knows he won’t get any more for free until he actually _pays_ for it. The guy’s not there, and Grantaire looks around impatiently, but doesn’t see him.

 _Bathroom_.

If Grantaire could change anything about this night, this would be it. This very moment in which he makes this very decision, when he stumbles into the room and steps into a pool of blood. A pool of blood that’s coming out of Jason’s stomach, and he’s not sure if it’s the drugs kicking in, the mix of alcohol or the adrenaline of the moment, but his breath is getting shallow and his limbs unresponsive. He kneels down –mostly because his legs don’t seem to support his weight anymore- and reluctantly pushes two fingers against Jason’s throat.

“ _Shit, shit shit shitshit_ \- _come on come on_ -“ He’s not sure if that’s a pulse or if his trembling fingers are playing a trick on him, but what he does know is if he doesn’t get help now this guy is definitely not gonna make it, that is, if he _still_ has a chance of making it. The walls are closing in on him, but he needs to get help- Jason’s dying, he needs to get someone before he fucking bleeds out, he needs to _move_.

He somehow manages to stumble away, out into the crowd of people again, but doesn’t make it very far before he stops dead in his tracks. This happened in the span of five fucking minutes. Jason had been alive five minutes ago – _no, he’s not dead, he’s not dead, go get someone!_ -, he’d been sitting at the bar, he’d been smirking at him. Grantaire snaps his head up and turns around, people everywhere. It’s full of people, whoever stabbed him can’t have gone far… He could be standing right next to them right now, he could be standing next to a murderer.

 “Answer me!”

He wasn’t there, he wasn’t with Jason when it happened, what if he’d been, though? What if he hadn’t waited those five minutes, what if he’d followed him to the bathroom? He would’ve witnessed a murder. Some cold-blooded killer stabbing him over and over and over again… Grantaire being the next, being the witness, he could be lying on the cold dirty floor next to Jason, bathed in _his_ own blood. Just five minutes… five minutes. Nobody would’ve heard them scream. Jason must have screamed, asked for help… begged for someone to help him.

“Grantaire!”

He clutches his neck, as though his throat is going to unclog itself and let air in. This is how Jason must have felt, he thinks, out of breath, his chest constricting, and just when he thought it’d be over, the killer would stab him again, twist the knife inside of him, he’d been coughing blood, he’d chocked on his own blood…

“ _DO SOMETHING!_ ”

 

They’re in the middle of a club, the music hasn’t even stopped, a few curious people turn around to stare at the scene. Bossuet reacts first, shouting something that sounds like ‘ _bathroom!_ ’ to Joly, who follows him without a moment’s hesitation. There’s a bloke coming out of a cubicle, he spares them a gone look before disappearing. Grantaire’s still hyperventilating and Joly kneels in front of him, rather shaky himself. Bossuet sends a worried look his way before placing his hands on top of Grantaire’s to try and have a look at his face.

Grantaire freaks out then, and Joly’s back to sober:

“Don’t touch him” he orders. “Grantaire?” Joly calls, feeling a bitter empathy within him. He’s had his fair share of panic attacks, and doesn’t wish it upon anyone. He can handle this, he knows how to proceed. Calm him down, he needs to calm down and normalize his breathing before he passes out. “Do you hear me? It’s Joly, Grantaire?”

Grantaire doesn’t answer, but limits to clutch at his hair and let out a whimper. Joly swallows nervously and shifts his weight, R looks white as a sheet, he’s going to lose consciousness any second if he doesn’t make him understand everything’s fine. But he doesn’t know what’s going on in that head of his, this could’ve been caused by a wide number of things!

“I’m getting Ferre” Bossuet stands up after a few seconds of silence. Joly snatches his hand and brings him back down to his eye level.

“We don’t need more people here” he says, mustering a serious expression and turning back to Grantaire immediately. “Grantaire, it’s ok. It’s ok, everything’s fi-“

“I’m dying!” he blurts out, the same words that have come out of his own mouth uncountable times before.

“You’re _not_ dying” Joly answers, clear and steady. “You’re _not_ dying, there’s no threat, you aren’t dying, Grantaire”

“I can’t- breathe-“ he chokes, coughing up vomit, his arms finally falling on his lap.

“Joly?” Bossuet urges.

“Turn him on his side!” he orders, and his boyfriend immediately obliges.

“He’s hot” Bossuet mumbles, and Joly just bites his lip nervously, because he really doesn’t want to admit it, but this is starting to look less and less like a panic attack and more like a drug overdose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O: !!!!!!!! I'm sorry for the lack of dialogue, I'm not a very good dialogue-writer(?  
> Hope you enjoyed another dose of angst! -no pun intended-.  
> (Yes, that is the same bathroom...)  
> See you around and thanks for reading! xx  
>  ~~PS: Leave a comment if you want R to live~~


	19. MDMA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doc catches Grantaire up.

When R wakes up in a foreign environment, he doesn’t pay it much attention. He’s accustomed to waking up in dirty alleys, stranger’s rooms, foreign places that he doesn’t recall having walked to. Sometimes he pulls himself on his feet hurriedly, hoping to take off before the cops arrive to do the job themselves. Some other times he assesses the situation, and if there’s no imminent threat –some cat rummaging in the trash container, at most– just flops back down and dozes off again.

But there is something odd about this place, he thinks. Bars don’t ever smell _this_ clean, not the ones he frequents, they don’t, and surely not in the middle of summer. Most people –drunkards– have just the precise amount of money to pay for a drink, least of all to concern themselves with smelling freshly of lavender. No, deodorant isn’t one of their priorities.

The Musain doesn’t smell of disinfectant. He’s not sure they even _own_ a bottle of that, though they probably do, otherwise the place would smell strongly of vomit and body fluids by now. He snorts.

Ugh, what’s that in his nose?

That’s the moment it hits him. With that one realization come the others. He opens his eyes, instantly lifting his hand to touch the tube in his face. Shit, he’s on a fucking hospital bed. His pupils take some minutes to adjust to the brightness of the room. He doesn’t keep them open for long, though, his eyelids way too heavy to endure it. He doesn’t even have the strength to react physically to the sudden voice coming from his side, though his heart does jump in his chest:

“Morning, I’m Dr. Collins” a male voice speaks.

Grantaire answers with a very slurry ‘morning’ and re-opens his eyes. There’s a bloke on blue scrubs standing on his right that he didn’t see before. He’s got a stethoscope hanging from his neck and is smiling at him.

“How are you feeling?” the man asks, leaning closer and producing a small flashlight from his scrub pocket. Grantaire grunts. “Fine” he answers, knowing that’s the last choice of words Doc wants to hear. Indeed, he lets out a quiet but unsatisfied hum. “Right, can you tell me your name?” he asks as he shines the light on Grantaire’s eyes. R is blinded for some seconds, but fights the impulse to look away.

 “Grantaire” he answers, his voice rough.

“Good, do you know why you’re here, Grantaire?”

The doctor puts the flashlight back in his pocket and Grantaire lets out a relieved sigh. Then, he blinks and ponders about the question.

“I have a few rough guesses” he says, his eyes closing again. His voice is an almost foreign sound to his ears and he realizes with a frown that his mouth is completely dry, and even though he runs his tongue over his lips, they don’t seem to get wet.

“What do you remember doing last?” the voice comes from the other side of the bed this time, and Grantaire opens his eyes to accept a glass of water. He downs it in one go, as he looks for the answers to that question. He clutches the glass in his hand when nothing comes to mind. The distress must show on his face, because the man rests an arm on his shoulder and says: “Breathe in, try to remember, in your own time.”

Grantaire does what he says. He takes a deep breath, then another one, and another one. The glass is no longer in his hand and by the time Dr. Collins turns around again, he already has an answer.

“I was in some club” he says. The man nods and smiles encouragingly. “And then…”

Silence.

“And then…”

And then what? He was in a club, that much he knows. Psychedelic lights, deafening music, alcohol. Then what? “I- did it again” he breathes out. _I must have._

“You did what again, Grantaire?”

R looks Dr. Collins in the eyes.

“I overdosed” he answers, deadpan. Information the doctor already knows.

“Do you remember what you took?” he asks. Grantaire waits some seconds, then shakes his head.

“Probably same stuff as always” he mumbles.

“What is the same stuff as always?”

Oh, Montparnasse must be so fucking pissed. He was there with him, wasn’t he? With his black leather jacket, they’d parked the bike outside.

“What’s the same stuff as always, Grantaire?” the Dr. insists.

“Just some dust”

Dr. Collins raises an eyebrow.

“I need you to be more specific”

“Angel dust.” Grantaire answers, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. How come this guy’s a doctor if he doesn’t know what he’s consumed? Haven’t they run blood tests or other shit?

Dr. Collins moves from his side to the foot of the bed, snatches a clipboard from the table there, and begins writing down with a frown on his face. R observes in silence until he places it back down and smiles again.

“Grantaire, you’ve undergone a serious drug overdose. Breathe shortage, hyperthermia, hallucinations, these are common symptoms of Phencyclidine consumption. Have you been feeling very hot lately, seen or heard things that aren't there? Is it ever difficult to breathe?”

It’s too many words and unknown jargon thrown in one sentence, and R takes a few moments to gather his thoughts.

“I just thought it was just… You know, summer” he shrugs as he lies to a doctor on his face. He can’t exactly go ‘yeah, but apparently I have a death wish so I just kept getting high and paid no attention to it’.

“Do you tend to just hallucinate stuff when it gets too hot?” Dr. Collins raises an eyebrow, almost disapprovingly. Of course he knows he’s shitting him. He’s probably read his medical record. It’s probably that thing on the clipboard on which he just probably wrote something along the lines of ‘weak motherfucker relapsed after failed therapy and landed himself on the ER again’. “Mixing drugs with alcohol can be fatal” Dr. Collins approaches again, stands on his right. “You were brought into the ER at 2:47 with clear drug overdose symptoms. We ran a tox screen to confirm what your boyfriend told us: that you were most likely on PCP”

Doc pauses, Grantaire looks down, a lump forming in his throat at the thought of Montparnasse. He will not want to see him again. He’s not here now. He’d been there that time.

“Except you weren’t” Dr. Collins speaks again. R looks back up and doesn’t even need to speak the question. The man continues: “Not primarily. There still was a trace of it in your system, and topping it with MDMA is what triggered the seizure.”

Grantaire’s breath gets stuck in his throat.

“Seizure?” he gasps.

“You started convulsing shortly after we inserted the tube for the gastric lavage”

Another pause.

Grantaire is gripping the bed sheets, horrified by the mental picture he’s getting.

“What is MDMA?” he manages to ask.

Dr. Collin’s voice comes out softer this time: “That would be Methylenedioxymethamphetamine”

R stares, blankly.

“Ecstasy” Doc adds. Grantaire laughs, for lack of anything else to do or say.

“I’ve never taken–“ He sees Jason at the end of the drinks bar, smirking, grinning in his direction as he swallows down the contents of the can. Jason’s dead, isn’t he? He’d walked in on his corpse in the bathroom, walked in, stepped on a pool of blood, taken his pulse, there’s been none, he’d been dead at his feet!

“Grantaire, take a deep breath…”

There’s a peeping sound that doesn’t let him get his thoughts together. What happened to Jason? Had they caught the culprit?

“Breathe deep” someone says near. The peeping intensifies and the whiteness starts becoming darkness. R wonders if he’s dying too, having another seizure. He thinks of Montparnasse, wants to apologize for so many things… He won’t get to say sorry if he dies.

 * * *

Next time he wakes up, he instantly feels another presence in the room, a familiar one, apart from the Doctor, that is. Eponine is seated on the left side of the bed, holding his hand. Dr. Collins re-appears on his other side. “Welcome back, again” he says. Grantaire’s head instantly goes back to a bathroom splashed with blood.

“Jason is dead” he says, taking extra care of breathing evenly. “He- he- the bathroom- was lying in a pool of blood-“ Dr. Collins lifts a hand to interrupt him. Grantaire alternates his look between him and Eponine, awaiting an answer, a confirmation, anything.

“Do you remember our conversation from early, Grantaire?” he smiles again. R is starting to hate that smile. He doesn’t answer, because what the fuck does that matter right now? His drug dealer had been stabbed to death in a bath cubicle hours ago, murdered in cold blood! “About hallucinations being one of the main signs of PCP addiction?”

He shakes his head.

“I didn’t hallucinate it” he blurts out. Spiders are fine, he can hallucinate spiders. But Jason? A real person had been lying dead on the floor. He’d been there. He’d been in that bathroom.

“R” Eponine calls, softly. He looks at her, disconcerted. Is she going to tell him he’s gone mad too? “There wasn’t anyone else in the bathroom.”

“But–“

“Jason took off after you– well, tried to anyway…”

“What do you mean ‘tried to’?” he inquires. Eponine sends a quick look to Dr. Collins before continuing: “Mont stopped him. He told us about what he’d given you and…” another look.

“I think this is a conversation best to be had after you’re well rested” Doc chimes in, with his smile and unnerving calmness.

“Fuck no” Grantaire snaps. “Where is Montparnasse?” He doesn’t tear his eyes from Eponine, who lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“There was a fight, the cops were called. He and Bahorel are spending the night in a cell” she says, quickly and up-to-the-point, eager to put an end to the conversation. Grantaire is puzzled for a moment. Then he curses again. He’d completely forgotten about the reason why they’d been at the club in the first place, and the anxiety is starting to kick in again.

“Was Courfeyrac there?” he asks, hoping for a response he knows he won’t get. Genie is out of the bottle. Every single soul in that club knows he’s a junkie.

“Yes” is what she answers, sending another look in Dr. Collin’s direction. Grantaire knows there’s an underlying meaning to that yes, and he keeps his gaze fixed on his friend, an attempt to make her talk. He can’t look very menacing in this state, so he hopes Eponine takes pity on him instead.

He’s got the impression she already does.

“He’s home now” she adds. “Everyone is”

_Everyone but your stupid impulsive boyfriend. Your stupid impulsive boyfriend who might not even be your boyfriend anymore._

“Well, Joly’s here. And Feuilly”

Grantaire smiles.

“Feuilly, uh?” he teases. Eponine’s cheeks might’ve been going red, or he might’ve been hallucinating it. Who can tell?

“I think we can let them in now, if you feel up to it” Dr. Collins checks something on a screen above his head and looks at him for confirmation. Grantaire’s not sure he wants to have Courfeyrac’s friends here right now. Eponine’s allowed. Eponine’s family. But these people? He barely knows them, he _doesn’t_ know them, they don’t know him either…

“R, he’s been dead nervous” Eponine says. “It’s the least you can do, he assisted until the ambulance arrived”

He bites his lip. Right, Joly’s the EMT. Shit, he doesn’t remember a damned thing.

“Okay” he agrees, and Dr. Collins gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze before leaving the room. Grantaire looks back to Eponine. She doesn’t let go of his hand. A minute passes, neither of them make a sound.

Joly and Feuilly come in, looking wrecked. Joly in particular. R’s pretty sure his hair isn’t supposed to be pointing to every corner of the room.

“Hello guys” he greets, once they’ve positioned themselves on the empty space to his right Dr. Collins had been occupying moments ago. “How you doin’?”

Joly snorts.

“How are _you_ doing?” he asks back, cute French accent making its appearance.

R shrugs.

“Been worse” he says. The last thing these guys need is to hear right now is the story of how he survived a drug-induced coma, so he quickly tries to move on the conversation: “Thanks for saving my life”

Joly makes a dismissive gesture and lets out a nervous sound.

“Please, all I did was freak out until they arrived to take you”

“Makes two of us” Eponine chimes in.

“Makes most of us” Feuilly adds.

Grantaire closes his eyes and starts to think it’s for the best not to have any recollection of it. Guilt is already eating at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback's appreciated (:


	20. The Night Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire makes a resolution, and Enjolras is _not_ stressed.

Grantaire is physically exhausted but his brain doesn’t seem to shut off. Joly’s sleeping on a chair to his left, and Feuilly and Eponine stayed around for a little while until R insisted rather serious that they went home and got some sleep –needless so say, they weren’t exactly thrilled by the suggestion. In the end, it was Joly who managed to shoo them– but the EMT also refused time and again to leave him alone – _Dr. Collins is checking up on me every hour, I’m not alone!–_ , Grantaire stopped trying after three failed attempts. R didn’t exactly feel like engaging in conversation, so he closed his eyes after some minutes and not long after, opened them to see Joly sound asleep sprawled on that uncomfortable chair.

He can’t get a wink of sleep now, too many things on his head.

He’s screwed up, big time, and he needs to plan his next course of action, because Montparnasse won’t be pleased.

Now, there are two ways to go about it: leaving or staying. He’s been holding on to the latter for a long time, but the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to go for the first option. Mont had told him he’d ‘been on the same path’ which they both knew the ending to. Here’s where it ended, with him and a tube down his throat –which had fortunately already been removed by the time he regained consciousness– and R knows that the story will repeat itself if he doesn’t make a different move. He’d hold on to Montparnasse and it’d been no use, really, here he was, wasn’t he? And Montparnasse was in a police cell, wasn’t he?

Grantaire knew from the beginning that this would never truly work out, that the outcome of this relationship would be counterproductive in the long run, even if it didn’t seem that way back then. He was toxic. For himself and for those around him. He’d known this and yet being the selfish prick that he was, he’d done nothing to stop it. It’s time to put an end to it now. Now that Montparnasse has possibly found someone worthy of his affections. Perhaps he wouldn’t even pay him much attention if he made it quick, ripped the band-aid at once. It’d hurt like a bitch for some seconds, but the pain would eventually subside, become more and more bearable until it went away completely. If there’s something Montparnasse knows how to do, that is move on.

As for himself, well. It’s quite the contrary, but he’s sure as hell not going to keep Montparnasse anchored to him anymore. _He_ might go back to square one, but Mont deserves the opportunity to step away from the shit show Grantaire’s made him co-protagonist of. R knows it won’t be easy. Montparnasse has already stuck with him for almost four years, he’s not going to leave just like that simply because Grantaire asks him to. If anything, that’ll just make him want to stay. He knows he needs to offer something in return, because his word is meaningless now. It has been for quite some time. Mont isn’t going to just say ‘good luck with your life’, shake his hand and disappear. He won’t be willing to cut the strings unless Grantaire gives him something to rely on, something to fill the empty space he’ll leave behind, he’ll want reassurance.

But Grantaire isn’t ready for a rehab centre, or any more psychological assessment or anything of that trash. And he wonders if he’ll ever be ready for it, because he’s on a fucking hospital bed after having had a fucking seizure, it doesn’t get any worse than this. This is the bottom line. If he’s not willing to make an effort now, when will he be? He only has one shot at it, as the saying goes: ‘third time’s the charm’. Third time will be his undoing, and if he doesn’t make a decision now, he might not get a chance to do it later.

He lets out a long sigh and rubs his eyes, feeling an imminent headache. He rolls on the bed and faces away from Joly. The tube in his nose is unbearably annoying and he makes great effort not to just rip it off. If he doesn’t behave, he’ll have to stay another night and he really doesn’t want to have to ditch his boyfriend from a hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown and looking sick and weak.

 _You_ are _sick and weak, though._

He can’t even imagine having to deal with a sobbing Courfeyrac in here. Joly is okay, he neither pries not tries to get an answer out of him, R supposes it comes with the profession, this can’t be the first time Joly treats a junkie. Courfeyrac on the other hand, he doesn’t think he’d be this sensitive. He’d probably bombard him with questions whose answers Grantaire wouldn’t give. He’s not prepared to deal with that yet, and he’s somehow grateful everyone is -probably– too drunk to spend the night camping outside the room.

 

At some point during his inner debate, R manages to doze off, with a sore throat and nostrils impregnated with the persistent smell of antiseptic. He’s not sure how long he’s been out for, but when he wakes up again, it’s thanks to his dry heaving. He rises from his sleeping position to cough out whatever is obstructing his air conduct.

Joly is at his side immediately, as he makes a rather unpleasant gagging sound. There’s nothing to be thrown up, though. The sensation leaves just as suddenly as it came. He runs a hand on his neck and makes a face. _Must’ve been some kind of gag-reflex memory from when they intubated me early._

“You okay?” Joly asks, though he doesn’t sound like Joly –the cute French accent having been replaced by a perfect English one– and Grantaire looks up to see that it isn’t, in fact, Joly. Unless he’s hallucinating again, Golden Locks is staring down at him with a concerned frown. “Should I call the doctor?”

R instantly shakes his head.

“It’s nothing. Just–“ he gestures to the bottled water placed on the far away corner. Enjolras brings the glass full in the blink of an eye.

“ _Merci_ ” Grantaire smiles. Enjolras watches him drink with a scowl on his face.

He flops back down on the bed as Golden Locks returns the glass to its place.

“When did _you_ arrive?” he asks him. Enjolras sits back down on the chair.

“Half an hour ago”

“I’m in a hospital, you know? I don’t need you to guard my dreams”

“Someone has to keep an eye on you” Enjolras crosses his arms on his chest.

“Yeah, that’s the doctor’s job. Are you a doctor, _monsieur_ Enjolras?”

“The doctor has to tend to other patients” he replies calmly, but R can almost sense the lack of patience underneath the words.

“Nurses” Grantaire retorts, and Enjolras actually rolls his eyes this time.

“You didn’t seem to be bothered by Joly’s company” Golden Locks points out. Grantaire makes a dismissive sound.

“Was too tired to pay him attention”

“Are you not tired now?”

R smiles, an attempt at bugging the French man.

“I’m not. Feeling like leaving yet?”

Enjolras rests an elbow on the chair and holds his head on his hand, supposedly making himself comfortable.

“No, it’s my shift”

Grantaire snorts. _Fuck this fucking tube!_

“I thought Combeferre was the doctor”

Enjolras doesn’t answer to that, but limits to fix his eyes on Grantaire’s instead. R is momentarily taken back in time to some moment in the last twelve hours in which Enjolras may or may not have stared at him with the same intensity, as though he were trying to decipher his every thought.

He looks away and clears his throat.

“How’s Courf?”

Enjolras lets out a sigh. R frowns.

“Well, he was sleeping when I left. Took Ferre and I a while to finally get him to calm down, it was the medicine what made him sleep in the end” Enjolras realizes by the time he’s finished speaking Grantaire has no knowledge of the situation. Rather than tripping on his words or changing the subject though, he hurries to add: “He just had a nervous breakdown, is all”

Grantaire rubs his eyes again, and nods. Leave it to him to screw up people who care about him.

“He’s fine now, R” Enjolras reassures him. Grantaire snaps his attention back to him at the mention of the nickname, but doesn’t call him on it. Only his close friends call him that… But Enjolras is sitting next to him in an ER room in the middle of the night and handing him water when he chokes, so he supposes he gets to call him whatever he wants.

“Why are you here, Enjolras?”

“I told you, someone needs–“

“No” R interrupts. “I mean here, in America”

Enjolras blinks, seemingly taken off guard by the question. He recovers quickly.

“Well, someone told me I needed some days off to relax…”

“No shit” R mumbles. Enjolras frowns at him and doesn’t say anything for some seconds, R takes that as his cue to continue. “Everything about you screams ‘stress’. That thing you do with your jaw” he gestures vaguely to his own face. “It’s so annoying”

Golden Locks makes an offended little puff.

“Excuse me?”

Grantaire can’t help but let out a laugh.

“I’m just saying, whoever suggested a break was probably sick of putting up with your teeth-clenching”

Enjolras makes something that looks like a pout with his lips and looks away. He crosses his arms on his chest and clenches his jaw.

“There it is again, you see?”

“I’m not stressed!” Enjolras exclaims.

R raises both eyebrows.

“It’s just something _I do_ ” he adds, defensive.

“But doesn’t it hurt?”

“No.”

“Really?” R insists, grinning in response to Enjolras’ cold stare. He doesn’t get an answer. Golden Locks simply pushes a lock of blond hair off his face with unnecessary force. Grantaire thinks he almost looks like a child throwing a tantrum. “So when are you going back? To France, I mean”

Enjolras doesn’t answer for some more seconds, R supposes an attempt to show his discontent towards the teasing.

“I don’t know. Couple of weeks” He looks back at Grantaire, who doesn’t notice he’s nodding.

Fourteen days fly away. He only hopes Golden Lock’s timetable is the same as the other’s. Courfeyrac and Combeferre will be gone in no time. Though on the downside, Jehan won’t be there to keep Montparnasse busy.

“Thanks for apologizing” Enjolras snaps him out of his reverie. “You apologized to Courf, I never thanked you”

Grantaire wants so say that there is no need of being thankful, that he’d had no other choice but to confront him. After all, they’d be holding meetings in his workplace, they’d be seeing each other regularly, and the least he could do was try and make amends, even if he thought that was completely up to Courfeyrac.

One thing was for sure, Grantaire hadn’t thought of Enjolras at all. He’d passed out, had been feverish, which had ultimately lead to an agreement between him and Montparnasse to ‘face his demons’.

He remembers now, that first heated encounter with Golden Locks on the café. He remembers angry words and collar-grabbing and coffee stains. He remembers Enjolras’ request that he offered an apology to Courf. He remembers cursing Enjolras in his mind, thinking that his determination and loyalty were almost endearing. Thinking Enjolras was way out of his league and too handsome for his own good.

He’s staring.

“You’re welcome” he blurts out, and pretends to re-arrange the position of his pillows just to have somewhere else to direct his look. Anywhere but in Enjolras’ direction.

It’s a failed try, though, because Enjolras stands up to assist him with the task, and he’s leaning over him trying to reach the pillows without a word. The faint smell of cologne impregnates the air Grantaire’s breathing, and he now has a clear view of Golden Lock’s collarbone, the first three buttons of his shirt undone.

“Is that all right?” Enjolras asks, after making some changes to the pillows, apparently. R’s mind is somewhere else entirely, and he lets out an intelligible grunt and feels the need to face palm himself.

Enjolras apparently takes that as a ‘no’, because he doesn’t back away but makes another attempt at re-arranging the cushions. Grantaire’s doing the teeth-clenching now. His hands are itching, and he’s suddenly overwhelmed by the need to yank Enjolras by the hem of the shirt, pull him close and kiss him fiercely.

_What the shit, Grantaire, get a fucking grip of yourself!_

“There?” Enjolras asks.

“’s fine” R blurts out immediately, and when Golden locks goes back to his seat, he hopes his red cheeks are blamed on the hyperthermia and not on the sudden spike of arousal running through his whole body.

_Oh, boy._


	21. Not Out of the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire isn't out of the woods yet, not even close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, long time no see! I'm sorry, but I've been quite busy working and when I had the chance to write, nothing would come to mind and I didn't want to make a shitty update so I waited until the inspiration struck back. I hope you enjoy the chapter and thanks for sticking around!

The sun is out. Grantaire is seated on the bed, breathing in and out, the muffled sounds of the Emergency Room creeping in through the walls. He’s got a hand tangled in his dark messy curls, and another one covering his eyes. The tube is finally off his nose, and he couldn’t be more grateful for it. He’s put his clothes back on, washed his shirt on the sink to get rid of the stench of vomit, though frankly, that smell is the least of his concerns at the moment.

Dr. Collins lectured him for ten minutes about the danger of PCP consumption, backed up by a very chipper nurse who wouldn’t stop calling him ‘sweetie’. Grantaire hates this hospital and all the people in it who keep addressing him like’s he’s a child who accidentally landed himself in this hole. He didn’t. He straight up jumped in of his own volition and couldn’t listen to any more of their bullshit. And he told them that. Dr. I-Always-Smile just shrugged it off like he hadn’t just cursed at him, and told him that such outbursts of anger would become pretty frequent from now on, as he detoxed from the drug.

Grantaire had swallowed down a bitter laugh and decided it was for the best that he didn’t mention his inexistent intention to detox at all. Well, that wasn’t completely true. He’d had enough time to ponder about it, but couldn’t manage to muster enough guts to accept any of those leaflets the chubby nurse had offered him. All right, that’s not entirely true either, he _did_ end up tugging a couple in his jean’s pockets just to make them both shut their mouths, but is determined to get rid of them as soon as possible, toss them into a trash bin before Montparnasse arrives and catches glance of them.

He’s been alone for fifteen minutes now. Enjolras left the room after Dr. Collins told him to and R had probably hallucinated it –because as the doctor had informed him at least three times, the hallucinations would get worse before they disappeared for good- but Enjolras had looked a little bit reluctant and had hovered near the door before making his way out. R had felt more relieved than he should have, he thinks. Enjolras stares too much and says too little, which makes it incredibly hard for him to focus on anything, and he really needs to focus because he’ll be stepping out into dangerous ground in no time, and he needs to plan his every move in order not to step on a mine. He’s grateful Enjolras has given him space.

But he also knows he’s taking too long. Someone will come in any moment and tell him he has to go, they’ve got other patients to treat, this is a hospital and he can’t hide in here forever. He hops off the bed and takes another deep breath. Then he goes out of the room.

There’s sound of conversations, phones ringing, a distant ambulance siren, and nurses and doctors walking to and fro. The lights out here are more blinding than the ones in the room and he instantly pulls the hoodie up his head. It doesn’t make much difference but it does gain him a couple of looks from the ER staff walking around. He doesn’t pay them attention and makes his way to the entrance hall, wondering if Enjolras really left the building because he’s not around. But he’s keeping his hopes down, the guy’s stayed for over four hours making him company, R doubts he’ll disappear just like that. He puts his hands in his pockets and heads for Helen, the nurse, who’s waiting for him to sign those goddamn papers.

It’s a bunch of information about why he’d been admitted, at what time, the time he’s leaving and some other details containing weird long words which are impossible to read. He pays and when he turns around, instantly spots a too-familiar mane of curly hair in the waiting room, next to a blond wearing a red shirt. They’re not looking his way, and Grantaire doesn’t know if they’ve spotted him yet, but his body acts of its own volition and he turns around and goes back to the corridor he’d come from, heart bumping hard in his chest because he can’t, he can’t do this, he can’t stand in front of Courfeyrac in this state.

He knows he looks dreadful, but it’s not the outer appearance what worries him. He can’t confront Courfeyrac now, he can’t explain anything. He can’t look him in the eye and hear questions and give fake answers, he doesn’t have the strength, the will, he thought he would, but one thing is imagining the scene in his head and another completely different is having Courfeyrac, the human, the real, the one who won’t necessarily act according to his imagination, in front of him. It’s unpredictable and he can’t deal with that at the moment, he needs to be in control of the situation. So he keeps walking, turning corners and clenching his teeth and clutching his hands in his pockets and breathing heavily and with tense shoulders until he spots an emergency exit. He makes a beeline for it and collapses against the closed door behind him.

_You’re one weak bastard._

He stays there for some minutes, runs a hand through his mess of a hair and makes a face, because his hoodie still smells like vomit. His throat is already dry and his brow sweaty. He stands up and stars descending the stairs, figuring it’s better leave the building, they ought to have realized he’s nowhere to be seen already, and he doesn’t want to take any chances. But the thing is, he literally just hopped off a hospital bed after having had a seizure _and_ there aren’t any drugs in his system to help him cope, so saying he isn’t in a very fit physical condition to do this right now is a huge understatement.

He doesn’t stop, though. Because he’s stubborn and reckless and stupid. Montparnasse would tell him off really bad, he thinks, as he finally makes his way into the first floor of the hospital, the sound of mixed conversations and phones ringing and some speaker calling for a Dr. Mendez making him scowl. He needs silence. He can already feel a headache creeping in.

This is obviously not the first time Grantaire assumes everything’s going well until something –or somebody- proves him wrong, and he is not sure if he would’ve preferred to deal with Courfeyrac and Enjolras up there rather than gracelessly collide with Combeferre just as he made his way out of the hospital, almost certain he had got away with it. But he has already had his fair share of getting away with things, and this is the end of that line.

Ferre doesn’t notice it’s him, at first, and neither does Grantaire, but then they lock eyes, Combeferre stopping halfway through his apology, staring at him agape.

Grantaire swallows, but his throat is still dry.

“Grantaire” Combeferre says, acknowledging him. Then he frowns.

Grantaire shrugs him off, taking a step back.

“I was just leaving” is what he says, before trying to make his way past Courfeyrac’s boyfriend who, obviously, isn’t letting him get away so easily. He snatches Grantaire’s hand back gently.

“Did you meet with Courf?” Combeferre asks, and Grantaire lets out a sigh.

“Oh, yeah” he says, like Combeferre doesn’t already know the answer to that question. R looks away, fixes his gaze on the people passing by and the distant cars on the street, an ambulance pulling into the parking lot. Combeferre doesn’t let go of him.

“I know how you feel, but please just let him see you” Ferre asks, and Grantaire snaps his attention to him, this time he’s the one agape.

“Yes, I imagine you know exactly how I’m feeling” he smiles bitterly, because how dare this guy even claim to know what he’s going through? There isn’t a more opposite person to compare himself with, and Grantaire shouldn’t feel disgusted by such a trivial comment, but he does, and he steps away and stares daggers at him. Combeferre doesn’t recoil under his menacing gaze –R didn’t expect him to- but looks at him with something akin to pity.

It makes Grantaire’s blood boil.

Ferre keeps his distance, but talks in a soft voice: “I’m sorry, it was pretentious of me to say that. But Grantaire, nothing good will come of it if you just keep running away”

Grantaire snorts.

Oh, this really is the last thing he needs. A moral lesson from Combeferre?

“Thank you” he says, nodding slightly, words dripping sarcasm. “I’ll keep it in mind” he tries to slide past Combeferre again, to no avail. His hands become fists as Combeferre takes his arm again, to prevent him from leaving.

Combeferre is tall. Taller than him. And he’s muscular, there’s no question of that. His biceps and broad shoulders look defined under that white button shirt he’s wearing which gives him a doctor-ish look. Combeferre is a handsome guy. Grantaire doesn’t want to pick up a fight with him _here,_ where Courfeyrac could walk in on them, where he’d probably be the one on the floor if Ferre decided to fight back –which Grantaire had the feeling, he wouldn’t-. Grantaire looked horrible, well, yes, he looked like he’d just overdosed and had a seizure, which he had. Comparing himself to Combeferre in any other moment, he might have found something good to say about himself, but right now, standing next to him looking like a zombie from _The Walking Dead_ , Grantaire could list a million reasons why Courfeyrac would chose Ferre over him.

“Please, just talk to him” Combeferre says, letting out a sigh. It sounds like a question. “He’s had a rough night” he adds.

Grantaire looks down, remembers what Enjolras told him about Courf last night. Something about medication and sleeping and about nerves getting the best of him. Yes, it’d be cruel to just leave without giving Courfeyrac the chance to see him, but the mere thought of standing in front of him now makes his stomach turn. Combeferre doesn’t understand that it isn’t just a matter of saying ‘I’m okay now Courfeyrac, it was just a drug overdose’. He should _know_ that, he’s a _doctor_. A drug overdose is never just a drug overdose. It’s so much more. And Courfeyrac happens to _be_ that ‘so much more’. Combeferre doesn’t know this, and R wonders if he’d be so insistent if he had knowledge of it.

No, it isn’t just a matter of standing in front of his former best-friend and reassuring him that everything is fine. Because everything _isn’t_ fine.

Combeferre still has hold of his arm, and Grantaire must be hallucinating again, because it seems like the touch of his hand is soft, kind even. Almost like a caress. He pulls away.

“I can’t see him now” he says, not looking up. Combeferre lets out another sigh, and puts some distance between them. Grantaire takes that as his sign of surrender. He doesn’t look back as he hurriedly makes his way across the parking lot, leaving Courfeyrac’s boyfriend behind.

 

His legs don’t take him home, because for some reason, home has also become a source of pressure. He knows Montparnasse must still be at the police station, so that would buy him some time alone at home, perhaps enough time to have a shower and put on some clean clothes and deodorant, make himself look less like a ghost. But he doesn’t do it, he doesn’t go home. He just walks, seeing but not looking at strangers passing him by, his stomach making noises now and then when he walks past a café or restaurant. When it gets too hot, midday, he takes his hoodie off and ties it to his waist, laughing, almost hearing Montparnasse criticising that choice and saying something about terrible taste of fashion.

He’ll have to face the music sooner or later, there’s no question, but he chooses to leave it for _later_. He’s grateful for not having spent the little money he has on him on food when he walks past a small stationer’s. He retrieves his steps and stands in front of the window, stares at the boxes of pencil colours and drawing blocks, memories of the school kids momentarily flashing before his eyes. Yet another shitty thing he’ll have to deal with. They must have got a hold of Eponine or Montparnasse by now, must know he’s been in the hospital, must have cancelled the classes, or perhaps have had luck in finding a replacement. Anywho, Grantaire doesn’t think he’ll be getting that job back. They’d cut him some slack that time. It’d been a mistake, he’d had a talk with the headmaster, he’d been given a chance and he’d promised not to screw it up.

He’d screwed it up. And it puzzles him and angers him that he isn’t as affected by it as he should be. As he thought he’d be. The prospect of not seeing those children again, their giggles and painted hands and messy little aprons as they splashed each other with paint when he wasn’t looking… why isn’t he sad that he won’t get to hear their sweet voices calling him ‘Mr. R’ anymore? What is wrong with him?

The doorbell rings and Grantaire blinks a couple of times as he comes back to the present and the memories of the colourful classroom fade away. A teenager leaves the shop with a pack of oil paints tucked under her arm. He stumbles into the shop. He only has enough cash for a notebook and a pair of pencils, but that’ll do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's a little aesthetic I made.](http://likelectricity.tumblr.com/post/150687382424/i-try-desperately-to-run-through-the-sand-as-i)


	22. The Last Straw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire was expecting most of it.

He’d opted for the least advisable option, in the end. But then again, he’d never been really good at advice. Neither giving it nor taking it. Sketching on a bench for the whole afternoon is what he did, even if that hadn’t been his intention at the beginning. A voice in the back of his head kept reminding him every few hours that this was in no way, going to help his case. But he didn’t listen. He never listened. He never listened and then he regretted it. And that’s the moment it should stop, after he regrets it, he should start making the right decisions. But he never did. He kept not listening instead, and regretting, and not listening. But he’d also learnt not to whine about it. He’d learnt to expect the worst, and get the worst.

And now, opening the door to his apartment, he’s expecting shouts and punches and perhaps something made of glass colliding with his head. But he’s forgetting that Montparnasse is a master of emotional restraint. Most of the time, anyway. He’s always the one comforting, the cocoon surrounding Grantaire, sheltering him from the bad thoughts. Well, it’s more than obvious that the bad thoughts have crept in, have been creeping in for a long time, silently getting under his skin and whispering dark words, so no, Grantaire is not surprised when he opens the door and hears his boyfriend –does he get to call him that?- gasp and turn around. What he is surprised to hear though, is an unfamiliar voice coming from their kitchen. Bahorel sitting on their sofa, hand halfway in the air, aiming at his mouth, as though he’d been biting his nails. _That_ , he wasn’t expecting.

He closes the door quietly behind him, eyes directed at the floor. The apartment sinks in silence, only his footsteps towards the bedroom being heard. It’s tortuous.

“Grantaire” Montparnasse’s voice cuts through his skin, cold and dark and hurt and dangerously close to the edge already. Jehan appears from the kitchen, he and Bahorel are as silent as a grave, as though they are two children about to witness their parent’s imminent argument.

Grantaire doesn’t turn to look at any of them in the eye, he keeps his notebook folded inside his jacket close to him, as if it’s going to save him from what’s coming. It’s not, and he knows it.

“Can we do this after I’ve showered?” he asks, his throat dry and his voice hoarse. He’s hot and he’s sweating and perhaps he’s caught a summer fever, for real this time. Oh, hyperthermia. _Right._

“No we _can’t_ do this after you’ve showered” Montparnasse retorts, getting close now, snatching his arm and making him turn to look him in the eye. Grantaire doesn’t. He runs a hand through his hair and then leaves it on his face, pressing on his eyes. “Look at me”

Grantaire feels something akin to a laugh starting to build up. He’s been having a little bit of trouble lately with looking people in the eye. He must’ve reached a new level of self-deprecation.

“What is wrong with you?” Montparnasse’s voice growls. A sweet sound yet deadly. There’s something building up there too, something very different to a laugh.

Grantaire snaps his head up, finally locks eyes with him. He’s got dark bags under his eyes, his hair is a mess –that’s a first- and there’s something that looks like dirt on his stubbly chin.

“How much time you got?” He smiles. Montparnasse pushes him harshly against the wall, his back collides against it, and he bites down a gasp. Bahorel is suddenly on his feet. The jacket and notebook are sprawled on the floor, Grantaire laughs, looks down again, and lets out a heavy sigh.

So that’s it.

“Have you _any_ idea of the night I’ve had?” Montparnasse clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t let go of Grantaire’s shirt. He grabs onto it and keeps him in place. “ _I’ve been going out of my mind and all I can think of is you and if you’re even fucking alive because I can’t even call the fucking hospital-_ _SIX HOURS, GRANTAIRE!_ ”

He shakes him by the shoulders again, Grantaire lifts his own hands and places them on top of Montparnasse’s, as if that’s going to stop him from pushing him against the wall. He’s been on a hospital bed all night, his back muscles don’t need any further punishment, thank you very much.

“I’m sorry” he says, his voice calm and repetitive and lacking in honesty.

Montparnasse is the one smiling now.

“You’re sorry?”

He sniffs. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“ _You’re sorry?_ ”

His grip grows firmer, Grantaire feels another push against the wall is imminent, he’s getting sick of it.

“No you’re not. You’re not sorry Grantaire.”

“You’re right I’m not” he finally breaks free of the grip, sending Montparnasse stumbling backwards. “I’m not sorry, not even a bit. I’m tired, I’m sick, I’m _so_ not sorry!” he laughs again. He can see something dangerous growing in Montparnasse’s eyes. Bahorel seems to be about to jump in, and Jehan, well, he’s keeping his distance, and with good reason, he thinks. “I’m not sorry, at all. And you know? I didn’t hesitate, not for a second, I was so desperate for a fix he could’ve given me anything and I would’ve fucking taken it, you know why? Do you want to know why, _Montparnasse_?” He takes a step forward. This is dangerous zone, he knows it. He’s looking for it. “Because I am. A drug. Addict. And that’s what we do, isn’t it? Fuck everyone else, fuck you! I wouldn’t even be here if it hadn’t been for you! So _no_ , I’m _not_ sorry, and don’t expect me to apologize, because you had it coming from the very first second you _met-_!”

He’d been punched by Montparnasse before, sure, and the memories might be fuzzy and uncertain, but they’d never really fought to cause damage. To let out steam, sure, relieve stress, uncountable times. R is quite sure Montparnasse had never aimed for his nose, though. Not with such force, either. He’d knocked him off balance before, he’d never been expecting the blow. He had, now. Been expecting it. He’s writhing in pain, hands covering his face, blood mixing with tears.

There’s a ringing in his ears, and he doesn’t hear anything for a couple of seconds. When the sound dissipates, he can hear something that sounds like Montparnasse apologizing over and over again through sobs, and a sweet and calming voice underneath, mumbling things that Grantaire doesn’t catch. The sound becomes more and more distant and he wonders if he’s about to pass out, because with the blow came an unbearable headache that had been waiting to come in full force since last night, but there’s a strong grip on his shoulders and by the time he understands what’s happening, Bahorel is behind him and pulling him to his feet. Or trying to, at least.

Grantaire lets out a groan and sways. A hand still pressing at his nose, helpless, the warm liquid is dripping down his fingers.

“Uh- hang on- concussion- eh- what would Joly- yes, floor is better, floor.”

R’s not understanding much of what he’s saying, but he frowns when Courfeyrac’s friend hovers over him and puts something soft under his neck to prop his head up.

He’d been expecting this. He knew it was coming, he pushed until it broke –Montparnasse’s patience, not his nose- and now, he’s regretting it. Usual gist.

* * *

Grantaire’s had a rough day. There’s no denying. But if you’d ask him this morning, what he thought he’d be doing in the evening, he surely wouldn’t have answered ‘making friends with Bahorel’. If that’s what you want to call it. It’s been almost an hour and Montparnasse isn’t back. Grantaire doesn’t honestly want him back, so he’s grateful Jehan’s keeping him occupied. Whatever it is they’re doing. He shakes the thought away.

Grantaire doesn’t deny a broken nose hurts like a bitch, he even wishes he’d been knocked out so as not to feel the pain, but he wouldn’t wish it any other way. He deserved it.

He hears Bahorel open cabinets and drawers. Hears him pouring water on something and walking back to the sofa. He opens his eyes then, and accepts the painkiller and the glass of water with one hand, keeping the ice on his nose with the other one.

Courfeyrac’s friend sits next to him on the sofa, they’re almost cuddling, it’s ridiculous how built up this twat is. Grantaire’s pushed against the corner.

He feels Bahorel staring at him. He turns, there’s a hint of a smile there that Grantaire squints at.

“Glad you’re enjoying my misery” he says.

Bahorel grins now, and shrugs.

“I’m just curious, how much of a masoquist are you?”

R had definitely not expected that question, and can’t help but laugh.

“A big one, yeah, to provoke your boxer boyfriend like that knowing he’d beat you to pieces”

“You seem to be a real expert, I wonder if _you_ box” Grantaire answers sarcastically. Pressing the ice against his nose is making his voice sound less threatening than he wants it to.

“You definitely have a death wish. He struck you right in the spot-“

“Yes, all right…”

“The swing of his arm! _Marvelous_ ”

“Hm…”

“Like Rocky…”

“I get it…”

“JACKPOT!”

“ _Oh my god, shut your piehole!_ ” he snaps, his voice breaking into a laugh mid-sentence. Then, they sit in silence for some minutes, Bahorel smiling but not looking at him, Grantaire smiling but his eyes closed. R kicks him in the shin when he starts humming Eye of the Tiger, and he says something about a death wish again.

“I don’t like pies…” Bahorel mumbles after some moments. Grantaire sniffs.

It gets quiet. Only the sounds of the distant cars on the street and life outside the windows being heard in the background. Grantaire hears them more and more distant with every minute that goes by. More and more distant until he doesn’t hear them at all, and his hand falls from his face and Bahorel catches the ice wrapped on a piece of cloth and places it back against his nose gently, careful not to wake him up.

He checks the hour on his watch, the painkillers are acting incredibly fast and he wonders if he should give Joly a call. He decides against it. More people here is probably the last thing Grantaire needs right now. Hell, what does he know? He doesn’t know this guy at all. He doesn’t know what he least needs or what he most needs. He’s got no clue.

One thing he can help with, though. He’ll have to wake him up and fix his nose before it gets swollen. He’s had his own fair share of broken noses to become a nose-fixing expert, no matter how strongly Combeferre seems to disagree. He’d got Joly’s blessing, so yes, nose-fixing expert.

* * *

It’s barely starting to get dark when Bahorel gently shakes Grantaire awake. They’re still on the sofa, and the TV on their bedroom is on some rock music channel, at moderate volume. The air smells like flowers and Grantaire is pretty sure that it’s never smelt like that before and he instantly turns to Bahorel for answers.

He sees a flowery bag on his lap with books inside, a yellow scarf and an opened pack of scent candles that he frowns at. The sight is almost hilarious. Never mind the bag nor its contents. Grantaire’s breath gets stuck in his throat when he catches glance of what Bahorel’s holding.

He blinks numerous times, hoping this is another hallucination of his, how could he have left that lying around-!

“So you like Enjolras” Bahorel shows him a half-smile, knowingly, almost shoving the drawing on his face as though he’s never seen it before. “Hm. Allow me to say that’s a little creepy”

Grantaire looks away, trying to look relaxed while panicking in the inside. He doesn’t like Enjolras! He barely knows him!

“I mean, you barely know him?” _Exactly!_ “I know he’s pretty and all, but this is stalking behaviour” he shoves the drawing on his face again, pointing at it. Grantaire can sense the teasing underneath his words, but it doesn’t make it any less haunting. “Marvellous art, yes, but stalking is stalking.”

Grantaire finally snatches the notebook back.

“He’s got nice proportions” he says.

It’s the first time he hears Bahorel laugh out loud.

He’d be laughing too, if his whole face wasn’t burning. Not hyperthermia this time.

“Nice proportions! He’s got nice proportions!”

R closes his eyes and pretends none of this is happening. He’s still sleeping, he’s still sleeping… Bahorel isn’t literally doubled down laughing his guts out. This is all a dream. He’ll wake up and Bahorel will be gone and he’ll burn that notebook because that notebook had been a mistake.

“Oh well, that’s one way to put it.”

Bahorel stands up and ruffles Grantaire’s hair like he’s some kind of child with an infatuation. He’s insulted. This guy’s younger than him! He doesn’t get to pet him like that!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know your opinions, and if you found any mistakes, they're on me. I've got a headache and my brain doesn't want to think anymore...


	23. New House, New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least, Grantaire hopes so.

Grantaire is gripping his backpack with shaky hands. He’s sweating and that headache that’s been bothering him all day long seems to have reached its peak. He stares at the door in front of him, as he’s been doing for the past ten minutes. And he lifts his hand to push the ring bell. And he puts his hand down again. And one more time he repeats the action until he can’t take it anymore and quickly descends the steps and makes his way out of Cosette’s property, letting out a curse.

The sun is shining unforgivably in the sky, he will regret it later if he doesn’t find a nice and cool spot to calm down, the air is fraught with humidity, and his shirt is starting to stick to his back. Fuck. Why had he agreed to this?

He couldn’t go back to Montparnasse’s, and Eponine’s house was too small and his back was still stiff from those two days he’d crashed on her sofa. He didn’t have enough money to rent an apartment, and he had no relatives that could assist him. Right, he’s basically homeless, that’s why he’d agreed to this.

Not that Mont had been particularly happy with his decision, but Grantaire had tried to sound convincing. Joly had insisted and Bahorel had insisted and in the end, Jehan had managed to convince him. Grantaire had hugged Mont tightly, had heard another apology and shaken his head dismissively. This was a good decision, he reminds himself. This is what he should’ve done before. Sort of. He supposes it counts as a recovery since he’ll be living under the same roof as two doctors to keep an eye on him.

But Courfeyrac, though. Courfeyrac’s what’s been eating at him for the past two days. He hasn’t seen him since the day he was dismissed from the hospital. Courf hasn’t tried to get in touch with him, he’s given him space, and Grantaire had been grateful for that. But now he’s starting to feel like throwing up and the fear is coming back up, creeping up on him again, he can’t make himself walk to that door and ring the fucking bell because Courfeyrac will be behind that door and he will need explanations and Grantaire doesn’t know how to explain.

He grips the backpack tighter, shoots a look to the big house and retrieves his steps. He needs to do this. Everything will be better after he’s done it. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. Courf will understand. His boyfriend’s a doctor. An actual doctor. He has to understand. Grantaire needs him so much to understand. If he understands, everything will be so easy. If he doesn’t ask, if he doesn’t pry. If he just… accepts the facts, and they start moving forward and do not dwell in the past.

He pushes the bell before he changes his mind again.

_One, two, three, four, five._

_Breathe. All is fine. All is fine._

_One, two, three, are they home?_

He pushes the bell again.

_Oh, fuck. I shouldn’t have agreed to this._

Who is he fooling? All he ever does is dwell in the past. That’s why he’s here, sweating and indecisive and scared and uncertain. He can’t expect Courfeyrac to ignore everything!

The moment he turns around, ready to start running like the coward he is, he knows he is, everybody knows he is, he hears the door opening behind. And his breath gets stuck in his throat and his knuckles turn white and he’s frozen in his spot, facing the other way.

“Hey man”

He releases the air he’d been holding upon hearing Bahorel’s voice. But he doesn’t turn, and he doesn’t stop gripping the backpack and his heart doesn’t stop beating uncontrollably. Bahorel notices something’s off, and Grantaire feels an arm on his right shoulder and Courfeyrac’s friend coming into his vision field.

“Everything all right?” he asks, an irrelevant question, given he knows perfectly everything is not all right.

“I can’t do this” Grantaire whispers, almost inaudible. His voice doesn’t crack and he takes a moment to be proud of it. Bahorel squeezes his shoulder.

“Can’t do what, mate?” he asks in a friendly, matter-of-factly tone.

Grantaire shakes his head.

“C’mon, yes you can” Bahorel rubs a hand on Grantaire’s back. “It’s ok. Everything’s all right, we just want you to feel comfortable here”

“I’ll go back to Montparnasse’s” Grantaire takes a step forward. Bahorel keeps a firm grip on his shoulder.

He stops in his tracks and drops the bag on the floor, his hands going up to his hair, his heart doesn’t stop beating in his chest, it’s too hot, he hasn’t had a fix in days, and it’s starting to take its toll now. The never-ending headache, the breathe-shortage, it’s so hot, he doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to be here, but Bahorel won’t let go, won’t let him go.

“Grantaire, you need to get over this” Bahorel says, calmly, low, only for him to hear, and the thought of someone watching from the doorframe crosses Grantaire’s mind, is Courf there? Combeferre? Can this moment be any more humiliating? “It will be all right once you’ve done it, just- let’s go inside, okay?”

Bahorel tugs at his shoulder, but Grantaire doesn’t move. He shakes his head again, and the tears start falling. Tears of sadness, self-deprecation, humiliation. He can’t believe he’s doing this in front of Bahorel. He can’t believe he can’t build up the will to face it. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that he’s been avoiding it for so long, it’s become a habit, it’s become his comfort zone, avoiding. He doesn’t know anything else.

“Grantaire…” Bahorel mumbles, almost helpless, as though he doesn’t know what to do, he’s running out of options, out of comforting words. “It’s okay, calm down…”

“Is everything okay?” comes another voice. Grantaire wants to scream, wants to shout the answer NO, EVERYTHING IS NOT OKAY, CAN YOU NOT FUCKING SEE?!

He doesn’t.

And Bahorel doesn’t say anything either, and although Grantaire’s hiding his face under his hands, he knows he’s giving Enjolras a knowing look behind his back. He lets out an embarrassing sob, wondering if Golden Locks or Bahorel would decide to chase him should he start running right now, then his thread of thoughts is abruptly interrupted by a cold hand taking his, and he opens his eyes to see Enjolras nodding at him.

“Come on” he says, as he picks up Grantaire’s backpack from the ground. “Let’s get you settled before Courf arrives” and he yanks him forward, guiding him into the house as though Grantaire’s some little kid. R finds he’s gripping Enjolras’ hand tight, but Golden Locks pays no attention to it and they climb the stairs together.

Bahorel is left behind, Grantaire doesn’t turn around, he keeps on walking, guided by Enjolras, who closes the room’s door after they’re in, and lets out a sigh. Grantaire blinks once, twice, three times to make the tears go away. He paces around the room as Enjolras starts talking.

“I’ve made some space for you to hang your clothes” he turns around and sends Grantaire a look, then looks at the backpack on top of the mattress. “Though it seems you haven’t got much…”

“Sfine” Grantaire makes a dismissive hand gesture. “Won’t be staying for long anyway” he says to the window, because it’s so much easier to say things without looking people in the eye. There’s a car pulling up in the driveway and Grantaire crosses his hands on his chest and starts to weigh his chances. It’s way too high to jump out of the window, he’d break something. He’ll just have to face it. Once and for all. There’s no way he’s leaving the house now. Would it be too forward to just go down the stairs at this very moment and shout something like ‘ _I started doing drugs because you were all I had, and you left, I was lost, is that what you want to hear?_ ’ in Courfeyrac’s face?

Grantaire snaps his head to his right, because apparently Golden Locks has been talking to him.

“Wha’?” he asks, his thread of thought interrupted by Enjolras’ massive frown. “I’m sorry, I was- you were talking to me?”

Enjolras seems to snap out of his own reverie, he shakes his head, his blond curls dancing funnily around his face. Grantaire realizes he’s been chewing his nails. He’s never had that habit. He withdraws his hand immediately.

“I was suggesting you have a bath. I’ll get your stuff tidied”

And Grantaire suddenly remembers that he’s hot, like a furnace, radiating heat and making the fabric stick to his sweaty skin.

“Oh, right” he makes a face, disgusted, and takes the shirt off immediately.

_Shower first, dealing with imminent crisis later._

“Sorry, I uh- am sort of gone” he lets out a nervous giggle as he rummages around in his backpack, snatching a change of clothes. He’s getting out the room before he remembers he’s not in his house. “Can I use any bathroom?” he goes back in and Enjolras turns around so fast that he collides against the wardrobe’s open door.

“Ouch!” Grantaire exclaims, and takes a few steps forward. “You okay?”

“Yes!” comes a high-pitched exclamation. Grantaire can’t see Enjolras’ face because he’s practically hiding it between the layers of clothes. “Just- the bathroom, just use the bathroom at the end of the corridor.”

R is a good person, so he just mumbles a ‘thank you’ and hurries out of the room, leaving Enjolras to drown in embarrassment. He’s just going to assume that Golden Locks was simply appreciating his tattooed arms, because although Grantaire can still remember that night at the Supernova and the young French man licking his lips and locking eyes with him, he’s convinced himself that Enjolras had just been too drunk to know what he was doing, because everyone had been too drunk, except for him of course, who had been too _high_.

He closes the door of the bathroom and lets out a heavy sigh. Looking at his reflection on the mirror he wonders how long it has been since he looked like a normal, healthy person. Sure, he used to drink a lot, but at least drinking didn’t get the colour out of his face. His eyes look as if he’s _actually_ applied red eye-liner to them, he looks like a strange raccoon.

_Yeah, drugs will to that to you, Grantaire. Or well, lack of._

This is the longest he’s gone without a fix since that time he almost lost his job. He stares at his arm, right there where the red spot is almost fading but still visible, he presses a finger down hard, closes his eyes and pretends. Then he smirks at his reflection, shakes his head and steps in the shower, lets the cold water run down his body as he leans on the tile wall. By the time he gets out of the bathroom, his headache is back, full-on.

He can almost hear his skull crack when he opens the door to the dormitory he’ll be sharing with Enjolras –reminds himself to ask about that later– and sees him sitting on his bed, intently looking at a very familiar notebook that Grantaire could _swear_ he had dumped in the trash can back at Eponine’s.

Not even The Flash would’ve snatched it out of Enjolras’ hand faster.

“What are you doing?!” he exclaims, as Enjolras stands up, taken aback and apologetic and speechless.

“I was just–"

“Getting your nose where it doesn’t belong, yeah” Grantaire snaps, and throws the notebook back into the now empty backpack.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–"

“You obviously did”

“Well, it was there when I finished unpacking and–“

“And because it was ‘there’ you just thought _better see what this is about, I mean, it’s not mine and it’s probably private but let’s just have a look anyway_ ”

“Look, I said I was sorry!”

“Yeah well ‘sorry’ doesn’t fix things now, does it?”

“What is wrong with you? Anyone would say I just found your secret stash of cocaine! It’s just a notebook!” finally Enjolras snaps.

Grantaire is struck silent for a moment before he starts smiling. He doesn’t know why he’s smiling. Maybe because it’s the first time someone calls him on his bullshit since Montparnasse. It doesn’t feel good, for some reason.

Enjolras is speechless himself again, he’s clearly trying to mend things but failing spectacularly at it, not even mustering a complete coherent sentence. Grantaire would be amused by it if he weren’t so angry.

There’s a static sound in his head, while Enjolras’ lips keep moving and he paces nervously in front of him, all Grantaire can think is _I need a fix, god I don’t care, I really need something, why the fuck did I get so bitchy, it’s just a fucking drawing, what is wrong with me, this wouldn’t be happening if I’d got a fix._

“All right, all right, shut it!” Grantaire exclaims, Enjolras cuts himself off mid-sentence and stares at him. “Sorry, I’m just, I’m edgy, okay? The doctor said this would happen so just–  _bear with me_ ”

“I’m– okay, yes, but I’m really sorry, that was the most insensitive comment, I– it will never happen again, I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shakes his head, if anything, this is all his fault. Leaving aside the drug withdrawal effects, he should’ve burned that notebook when he’d got the chance.

“Just, don’t creep out about it, all right? I just, I draw everyone. It’s not like I’m obsessed with you or anything, I just draw random people I see on the street really.”

“What do you mean?”

“What?”

“You made a drawing _of me_?” Enjolras smiles.

Grantaire shakes his head.

“Noooo?” he sings. Fuck. Oh if only he’d kept his mouth shut. Wasn’t that the same notebook?

“I heard shouting” Bahorel peeks in from outside. Grantaire stares daggers at him, because this is probably his doing isn’t it…

“We’re fine” he says through gritted teeth. Bahorel doesn’t take his word for it, and he turns to Enjolras instead.

“It’s okay, we’ll be right down.” Golden Locks nods. Bahorel gives them thumbs up and they sink in silence after the door clicks and they’re both alone again.

“So?” Enjolras provides.

Grantaire almost lets out a groan.

“Soooooo what?” he asks irritably, then he gives himself a mental smack, he doesn’t need to be rude. Man, this is going to be exhausting.

“I want to see my drawing, was it at the end?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Look, Golden Locks, there _is_ no drawing, all right?”

“Call me that _one_ more time, and it’ll be your undoing” Enjolras suddenly points at him in exasperation. “Now show me the drawing, please?”

“Look, I’ve no obligation to show you anything.”

“So there _is_ a drawing.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Grantaire has to run and catch Enjolras before Enjolras catches the notebook. “Let it go, Enjolras!”

“I’ve never seen a portrait of me, just–“

“No–!”

And so on they continue, Grantaire trying to keep the notebook closed and Enjolras trying to do the opposite. At some point they fall on one of the beds, Grantaire can swear he’s getting all sweaty again, especially with Golden Locks on top of him.

“I’m serious, what are you, three years old?! Leave it!”

“I already saw most of them, just let me _see_ it!”

Grantaire hears the door open again, and he conveniently snatches the notebook out of Enjolras’ claws at the same moment and sends it flying across the room to collide with Bahorel’s head.

“We’re not shouting Bahorel!” he exclaims.

It’s not Bahorel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologize enough for abandoning this for *months*, I've tried to write a long(ish) chapter to make up for it but I know you'll hate me all the same(? I hope you enjoyed it though! I have a few ideas for future chapters but I'm busy with work so I don't know when I'll be updating again, I hope soon! Thanks for sticking around people, I appreciate it♡ I've also been working on a playlist for this fic, I don't know if you'd be interested in that? I'll probably post it on my tumblr but I'll be sure to add it to next chapter's notes! See you around and happy 2017 too (gosh it's been so long I'm sorry lol)!


	24. Facing the Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courf and R finally have a talk.

Not-Bahorel turns out to be Courfeyrac. Enjolras rolls off of him and dusts his clothes off before extending a hand in Grantaire's direction, as though he's not able to pull himself on his feet.

He isn't. So he takes Enjolras' hand, maybe grips it a little harder, holds it a little longer than he should.

"I can... comeback later if you guys are busy" Courfeyrac says, vaguely gesturing towards the door. Grantaire wishes they _had_ been busy, if only to delay the inevitable a little bit longer.

"No, we were just... I was just going to... I believe Bahorel needed my help with something" and just like that, after what Grantaire wants to think a comforting squeeze to his hand, Enjolras leaves the room. The soft sound of the door clicking marks the start of a very awkward and tortuous silence.

Grantaire doesn't look up, he hunches down. He fixes his gaze on the floor and closes his eyes, trying to muster up the strength he knows he's going to need.

He hears Courfeyrac approach, and then hears him sit down on Enjolras' bed.

Grantaire isn't sure if he should feel grateful that Courf chose to keep his distance. It somehow feels like the most convenient methaphor ever.

"How are you?" Comes his soft voice.

Grantaire shrugs.

More silence.

He gathers his words. Not many words.

"I'm fine" comes the automatic answer. Courf laughs. A fake, bitter laugh.

Then there's silence again.

"I think that's the last thing in the world you are, Grantaire."

He says it with such confidence, such seriousness, he means it, he means it as if he understood. It's too straightforward an answer. He wasn't expecting Courf to get to the point so quickly. Maybe beat around the bush for a while, assess the terrain.

Instead he just got the raw truth spit on his face by the last person in the world he would've admitted it to.

His eyes are stinging.

Courf is waiting for an answer, and Grantaire _is_ looking for one, anything to say. He's failing, and his eyes are getting watery and he lifts his hands to wipe the tears before they fall.

"Look at me?" Courfeyrac requests, voice soft as velvet. Grantaire shakes his head, a whimper escaping his lips. "R, please look at me"

But Courfeyrac beats him to it. His voice cracks.

Grantaire brings his hands to his face to muffle the cries that have now started and are very unlikely to stop any time soon, he knows that much.

"I'm sorry" he finally manages to blurt out. His voice comes out way too high-pitched for his liking, and Courfeyrac moves to sit next to him and takes him into a reassuring embrace.

"It's okay, you don't have to apologize, R, look at me"

But it's as though something's keeping his head down. He can't bring himself to look up. He's too ashamed. Oh, what has become of him? What must Courfeyrac be seeing, if not a poor excuse of a human with the power of will the size of an ant?

"I'm sorry Courf" he chokes out, and finds himself clugging to Courfeyrac as though he's the lifeline in the middle of a deep and desolate ocean. "I never wanted to-- I never really wanted to, I swear"

"Shh" Courf whispers in his ear, through his own tears. "It's fine, you're fine, I'm here now, you're gonna be fine. We'll get through this"

"He just- he was there and I-I was feeling so bad, it wouldn't go away" he grits his teeth. He can still recall the first time he bought drugs.  He'd felt an emptiness in his stomach. It wasn't hunger, it wasn't an emptiness caused by anything physical. It hurt and it clogged his throat and it made his hands clench. He hadn't been able to walk away that time, he needed to _stop feeling_. The cure was a mere meter away, inside a black plastic bag. All it'd taken was a moment of weakness and he'd surrendered. "It wasn't going away" he continues to mumble. Courfeyrac doesn't let him go. "And I couldn't take it anymore." He adds through gritted teeth. Furious with himself.

Saying it out loud, it sounds so stupid. So banal. He'd been caught off guard, drunk and alone, without no-one at his side who knew better. No-one to prevent him from taking the first step down into a web most difficult to come out of.

He sniffs, and runs both hands over his eyes. Takes a deep breath, his face feels hot again.

"I was so alone" he adds, absent-mindedly, and when Courfeyrac lets out an almost-inaudible high-pitched whine, Grantaire finally looks up. "Don't do that. The fact that you were my only friend doesn't mean you're the cause-"

"R, you just said it yourself" Courf interrupts, voice a mix of anger and anguish. "I was your only friend, and I fucking left and then you-"

"You are not responsible for my life, Courfeyrac. I always had issues and you know it" R cuts him off, mustering the most serious voice he can manage to. "Everyone knows it" he adds with a bittersweet laugh. "We both know I've always had self-destructive tendencies."

They'd always been like water and oil, the two of them. R still doesn't understand what brought them together, but more importantly, what had made Courfeyrac stay. Perhaps the fact that he was the most kind-hearted person Grantaire had known. Perhaps he understood early on, Grantaire needed somebody to lean on.

"I wish you'd had kept drinking instead..."

Grantaire huffs.

"Yeah, me too..."

Courfeyrac's hand finds his, their fingers interlaced in a comforting manner. Familiar and distant at the same time.

R turns his head to look at him. His eyes are red and swollen, still they look as beautiful as ever. Courf's eyes have always been R's galaxy. The same way Courfeyrac got lost appreciating the night-sky above, Grantaire got lost in the various shapes of green of his eyes. Not even the most expensive of oil paintings could do them justice.

"I never stopped thinking about you, you know" Courf whispers, voice soft and calm, breath smelling like strawberry ice-cream. And Grantaire thinks that if he can tell what Courf's breath smells like, then Courf must be pretty fucking close. And he needs to do something about that closeness. He needs to put distance between them. "In Paris, I always wondered... what you'd be doing"

_I was getting high. Falling into comas and boxing the days off with Montparnasse._

R looks back down and quietly retrieves his hand from Courf's. Whatever he's thinking of doing, Grantaire doesn't need it.

He stands up and smiles.

"Likewise. I really envied you. Paris! The home of art..." he lets out a theatrical sigh and watches as Courfeyrac crosses his arms on his chest and returns the smile.

"Well you can always comeback with me"

At that, Grantaire laughs, genuinely this time. He, in Paris? When he can't even afford the shittiest apartment in the history of shittiest apartments? And with a knowledge of barely two words in French? Not likely.

Courfeyrac seems to read all this on his face, though he doesn't out his thoughts.

"Why not?"

"Because..." he makes an exasperated sound, followed by an even more exasperated gesture. And he stops. And he can't believe he actually has to think of a serious reason because Courfeyrac actually _is_ serious. "I'm a mess" is what he offers, vaguely gesturing towards himself. "Look at me, I'm almost 30, got my art degree due to sheer luck-- no, let me finish, I am _not_  a responsible student. Hell, I wasn't even a responsible teacher! I traded my job for drugs and a trip to the emergency room. What the _hell_ am I going to do in Paris?"

Courfeyrac shrugs.

"A change of environment will do you good" he says, matter-of-factly.

"You know there still are drug-dealers in France, right?"

At that comment, the seemingly playful mood that was taking over all but shatters.

"It's not a nice thing, Courfeyrac..."

"I wish you would stop calling me Courfeyrac" he snaps.

"That's your name" Grantaire adds, playing fool. Courf fixes him with a death stare. "Look, you haven't seen _anything_.  Living with an addict isn't a nice ride, okay?"

"I've seen enough" Courf protests. R nods knowingly.

"Tell me that in a couple of days when I _really_  start to detox" he laughs it off, but Courf isn't laughing.

"My boyfriend's a doctor, you know? And I'm not a naive child."

"Hey!" He exclaims before he can stop himself. "I'm just saying, I wouldn't have accepted Cosette's offer if I'd had another place to crash."

"'To crash'?"

"I'm not gonna put Montparnasse through that again"

"'To crash'? We're trying to help you here, this isn't some temporary place you can 'crash in'"

"I thought that's exactly what it was. You're going back to Europe in two weeks, the fuck do you think you're gonna solve, uh? Four fucking years of getting high won't just go away in fourteen days, your boyfriend's a doctor, you should know that." If he sounds a little bit mocking in those last words, he doesn't care.

Courf's eyes are getting glassy again. But Grantaire's on another of those moments. The filter's gone off.

"Bit of advice: maybe wipe off that idea that you're Mr. Perfect off your mind, Courfeyrac, you can't excel at everything. There are some things that can't be fixed."

"Like you?"

"Like me." He offers a sour grin. Courfeyrac finally gets on his feet and stomps his way over to the door.

"You can't keep living like this, R."

"Hm... where have I heard that before?"

Courf stares at him for a couple of seconds, the expression on his face a mix of sadness and fury. Then he exits. Slams the door behind him.

Grantaire stays still, enraged.

He looks around. This is not his house, he can't break anything.

His heart is beating uncontrollably against his ribcage.

He _really_ wants to punch something.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, it's been SO long. I just want you guys to know that I'm not abandoning this story. Updates might not be as regular as they used to be but I'm writing whenever I can, so hopefully this will be finished in the near future. I am immensely grateful for your support and if you're still around, just, thank you so much for still being around. Love you all ♡
> 
> This chapter has not been proof-read so if you found anything off, that's bc it's five in the morning and I should be sleeping. I'll edit it tmw. Hugs y'all ♡


	25. A Night Stroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go according to plan for Grantaire. But then again, when do they ever?

Grantaire is way too aware of his surroundings. From the sound of Enjolras' breathing on the bed next to him, to the annoying tick-tock of the clock on the wall, to every car that drives by, to the sound of water running in some bathroom in the corridor, to the constant humming of the air-conditioning on the opposite wall. It's as if he's suddenly turned into Spiderman.

He hates it.

He hates how things are already beginning to change around him. His perception of things. _The people_. The people who had dinner with him tonight are not the same people who sat at the table during breakfast a week ago. And that kills him.

It kills him because they're quieter, they visibly try to stick to their normal behaviour as much as they can, and Grantaire should probably appreciate that but he's too busy with other, much darker emotions to leave space for appreciation in him.

Everyone treats him as if he's suddenly gone back to being a teenager. They are _way_ too gentle, _way_  too willing to let him get away with everything. And it sickens Grantaire that for some reason, everyone thinks it's not a big deal.

It's not a big deal that he shouted to Joly earlier because he kept trying to slip in conversation the "r" word. Trying to hint that there are some exceptional rehabilitation centres in Paris.

It's not a big deal that he snapped at Cosette for insisting that he drank some more juice because it was good for him, because ingesting liquids was beneficial for his state.

And it wasn't a big deal either that he'd been the cause of a nasty burn on Jehan's hand when he'd turned around to turn down his fifth offer of herbal tea. Because camomile had soothing properties.

Sometimes he'd apologized, most times he'd just fled the scene, rage growing stronger and uncontrollable.

Combeferre had tried to approach him several times. Grantaire could see it in his eyes, and when he got way too close he normally walked on the opposite direction. He could tolerate Joly at this custom doctor-supervising thing that was going on, but he wasn't at all sure about how he felt about Combeferre. And he didn't want to be sure any time soon.

Enjolras rolls on the bed with a muffled, adorable sound. His covers roll to the floor and Grantaire stares at them without moving.

It's been an hour since the last sign of movement outside the corridor, so he decides it's time to get some fresh air. He tiptoes out of his bed and picks Enjolras' covers off the floor. He eyes the air-conditioning behind him, wondering if he should turn up the temperature. He's only _wearing_  thick covers because Grantaire is a fucking walking furnace 24/7.

The remote control is on the bed-side table, but he shakes the idea off his mind at remembering the beeping sound it makes whenever you push on a button.

He places the cover back on top of Enjolras, who's lying belly-down. One of his feet is falling off the bed, and Grantaire -as gently as he can manage- carefully tucks it back under the duvet. The last thing he needs is Enjolras catching a mid-summer cold because of him.

It takes all his power of will not to run a hand through the soft blonde curls before turning away, but he manages to. He picks up the white tank-top he threw earlier on to the floor along with his worn-out converse on his way to the door. He flinches at the _click_  sound it makes at opening, and stays frozen for a couple of seconds, waiting for Enjolras' voice muttering a "what are you doing", or a "where are you going", perhaps a very sleepy and intelligible "Grantaire?". None of those come. He walks outside, and with the same care not to be noisy --although perhaps with a little bit more urgency--, he walks down the stairs.

Stopping at the bottom, he checks that there's no one in the kitchen and that all the lights are off. Then he makes a beeline for the door, there are about four to five copies of the key, so it shouldn't be a problem if he borrows one. He'll be back before anyone's up anyway.

He's about to put the key in the keyhole, when he startles at the voice:

"Going somewhere?"

The key ends up on the floor, and Grantaire lets out a curse.

He didn't check the sofa.

Combeferre rises from it like a zombie rising from his grave. Coming back to life, desperately hungry for the taste of human brain. His brain.

"What are you, mounting guard?" Grantaire mocks.

Combeferre holds up a book as an answer, and a little device that Grantaire guesses is a mini-light of some sort.

"Yeah, it still looks like you're there to bust me." He shrugs.

Combeferre places both the book and the flashlight down, and settles back down in a more comfortable position. Grantaire catches a bit of light reflecting on his glasses.

"I'd only be 'busting' you if you were doing something illegal" Ferre answers, crossing his arms in that I-know-I'm-superior way that Grantaire hates.

"Well I'm just gonna have a hike, so joke's on you."

He bends down to pick the key up and puts it back in place to open the door.

"So, I'm supposed to just take your word on it" Combeferre interrupts him again. Grantaire lets out a sigh and rests his hand on the doorknob.

"I suppose you are, yeah." He looks back defiantly. This is it. If he's going to turn on the lights and go wake everyone up and tell them that Grantaire was sneaking away at 2am, this is the moment.

But all Ferre does is stand up, take out his glasses and place them neatly on the small table. Then, much to Grantaire's chagrin, he approaches.

"I hope you don't mind me joining on your nocturnal exercising routine, then."

R stares at him, not believing his ears.

Well, better this than public humiliation.

"You gotta be kidding me" he mumbles to himself, as he turns the key and opens the door. "I'm not a fucking child" he mutters again, and puts on his shoes with unnecessary force as Combeferre takes on the task of locking the door. "Un-fucking-believable."

So much for avoiding him at all times, R thinks. Karma's a bitch.

"Shall we go?" Combeferre says, gesturing towards the entrance.

Grantaire laughs, for lack of anything else to do, and starts sprinting.

_I'll just pretend he isn't there. How hard can it be?_

"Those shoes will wreck your spine, you know." Ferre speaks as soon as they've left the house behind.

Grantaire makes a sound in response, uninterested. Then he takes notice of Combeferre's shoes.

"And I suppose flip-flops are a better choice?" He retorts, slowing down, because he's already out of breath. How long has it been since he exercised?

"Touché."

They go a handful of blocks without speaking, and Grantaire is almost ready to accept the fact that maybe Combeferre's company wasn't _that_  unwelcomed, when he's calling his name.

R pretends not to hear him, once, twice, until Combeferre places a hand on his shoulder and makes him stop.

Grantaire turns to look at him, panting and unfriendly.

"I need--" Ferre is out of breath himself, and Grantaire is out of patience.

"You need? What do you need?"

"To ask a favour of you."

Grantaire huffs and steps away from Combeferre's grasp.

"I don't like doing people favours. It's okay if you can't catch up" he extends his hand. "Just gimme the key and I'll see you in the morning."

"And how do you suppose I'll get in?"

_I couldn't care less._

R shrugs.

"Climb a wall? Get in through a window? Not my problem." He shakes his hand insistently.

_I didn't invite you to tag along._

"That's not what I want."

"Yeah" Grantaire pants. "Figured."

Combeferre opens his mouth to talk, but Grantaire is having none of it.

"But it's the only thing I'm gonna do for you, so, you ready?" He points to the sidewalk ahead and starts running again.

"Grantaire!" Combeferre stops him again, hand on his arm.

"WHAT? What the fuck can you _possibly_  want from me?" He exclaims. Clueless.

Well, maybe not so clueless. This has _got_ to be something to do with Courf.

"I want you to help yourself."

_Here we go again._

"All right, hm." Grantaire nods.

And waits.

But Ferre just looks at him.

Looks at him that pitying way Grantaire would do anything to make disappear.

"That it?" He presses, eager to end this conversation and get on moving. This was supposed to be a walk to relax. "Okay, we got a deal."

"Can't you just be serious for a moment?"

"You think I'm not being serious? You think being clean for a fucking week is A FUCKING JOKE?!"

His voice is engulfed by the silence.

His hands go to his hair.

He starts pacing around.

"You have _no_ idea what it's like. You think being a doctor gives you a free pass into understanding this shit?"

"I've never said that." Ferre answers with a stolid expression. It makes Grantaire's blood boil, how he can be so unmoved, just standing there pretending he's the key to solving everyone's problems, so sure of himself.

And then _he's_ there, moving around impatiently, like a caged lion.

"Oh you've never said it out loud, but you don't need to, do you? It's written all over..." he gestures towards Ferre's body. "You."

"Is that how you see me?"

Grantaire laughs.

"No, that's how _you_ see you" he points at him with an accusing finger and a disgusted expression.

"You're mistaken."

"See?" Grantaire smiles, happy that Combeferre is helping him prove his point.

"What do you _think_ I'm doing here exactly, Grantaire?" Combeferre steps closer, and R finally sees him show some emotion. He's taken aback. "Just _what_  do you think I'm doing with you here, in the middle of the night?"

Grantaire is at a loss for words.

He could go for his typical answer, the joke-y type, but something in Ferre's expression prevents him from going down that road. Something in his eyes.

He looks away.

"Babysitting?" He mutters.

Combeferre is the one who lets out a laugh now.

"Look, if you don't feel up to the task, just say it. Say it and be done with it."

Grantaire glares at him.

But he doesn't answer.

"If you've got no intention to stop doing drugs, that's _your_  problem. But you're not dragging Courf down with you, I'll comeback with you this very moment, I'll pack your things even. Just tell him that you can't do it and be, done, with it. Because you will gain nothing by lying to yourself _and_ him. Just more pain."

Grantaire rests his hands on his hips and stares into the distance, gathering his thoughts. He can't believe he's having a heart to heart with Combeferre right now, but, well, to quote him: _let's be done with it_.

"I do _not_ want to go down that road again." He says it, loud and clear so he doesn't have to repeat it, though he's still not facing Combeferre. It's easier that way. "It's not the first time I try to..." he gestures vaguely towards himself. "You know."

Ferre lets him know he's listening by making a humming sound, encouraging him to go on.

"I just think... if he's here, I might be able to... maybe he's the support I needed. I just... I don't know. It started when he left, I suppose part of me feels this is the time to finish it. With him back." _Even if he's leaving again. Maybe I can go on on my own if he just helps me start._  "It's stupid I know."

"It's not stupid. The fact that you're looking for a reason to stop is already a good sign. But you can't depend on others. The choice is yours in the end."

Grantaire nods.

He hears Combeferre shifting position next to him, and he really hopes he's not going to hug him or something.

He decides to change the subject before anything embarrassing happens.

"How do you feel about boxing?" He asks Ferre.

He needs to let out some energy.

Ferre smiles.

"Lead the way." He says. Grantaire returns the smile, albeit awkwardly.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of character development there, aye? You go R! Hope you enjoyed that guys! Let me know what you think (:


	26. Dead Puppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire isn't welcomed at the boxing club, but back at home though...

Grantaire does feel a little sorry for dragging Combeferre down to the bad part of town just so he can let out a little stamina. But then again, he's not here unwillingly, he can stand up from that old sofa in the corner anytime he feels like it, and take a bus home. He's been dozing off for the last five minutes, but Grantaire's way too fidgety to stop now. It hasn't even been an hour, and he's just _loving_ the rough contact of his bandaged hands with the sandbag. It reminds him of those nights with Montparnasse when they'd come down here to pass the time.

 

The place is rather crowded for 3am. He knows most of the faces around, but Combeferre, poor Combeferre sitting alone and so out-of-place, is receiving most of the scrutinizing looks. Grantaire turns his attention back to the sandbag. He'll manage. He may look like he doesn't belong, but he's tall and built-up and nobody will dare pick up a fight with him, because, to be honest, he does have a little bit of a resting bitch face.

 

Grantaire laughs at his own thoughts. A soundless laugh.

 

He's exhausted. And his hands are getting sore, but that's the least of his concerns. It'd been a long time since the last time he came here, and he hadn't realized just how much it helped him to unwind. He's focused, channeling all the anger and insecurity and stress towards that bag, occasionally taking a sip of water from that bottle Combeferre got for him from the snack machine.

 

But as always, good times for him don't last much, and his good time ends the moment Gueulemer's face enters his line of vision.

 

"Who's the guy?" Gueulemer stands next to him. Grantaire doesn't pay him any attention. This guy's never good news. He keeps punching the bag and only stops when Gueulemer starts flexing his hands open and close. That's not a good sign. He's seen it uncountable times in the past, just before he beats the shit out of anyone he doesn't feel like sharing space with on a particular day.

 

Grantaire supposes it was just a matter of time until his turn came up.

 

"He's a friend, what do you care?" is what Grantaire answers, barely glimpsing in Gueulemer's direction.

 

When he's going to punch the bag again, it doesn't move. Gueulemer's got a hold of it.

 

"I don't like him." Gueulemer states, and Grantaire knows that translates for 'make him leave', but he pretends he doesn't.

 

"Yeah?" he mocks, feigning indiference. _Get in line_ , he adds in his head.

 

"He looks like a cop." Gueulemer adds, with a grunt, staring at Combeferre, who's eagerly typying on his phone. He saw him talking on the phone a while ago, and he's been wondering if he'd been informing Courfeyrac about their impromptu night-out, or just making a call to some relatives in France --it's day there, isn't it?--.

 

Grantaire actually lets out a genuine laugh at that.

 

"You're delusional" he says, shaking his head in disbelief. 

 

"Oh I'm not the delusional one, Grantaire."

 

R stops punching the bag, letting out a prolongued sigh and finally facing Gueulemer, because if he wants to pick a fight, he might as well just do it and shut his cake-hole.

 

"You got my dealer out of the business, so you don't get to show your face here thinking there'll be no consequences."

 

"So find another one" Grantaire provides, shrugging. "He was a shitty dealer anyway."

 

His little chat's starting to get an audience, and Grantaire has the feeling few of the people joining in are on his side. He knows he can mark Babet and Claquesous down as enemies, because they'd do anything Gueulemer asked them to, anything for a bag of cocaine. 

 

"You put in him the spotlight, and now Jack's nowhere to be seen."

 

That's a good thing, R thinks. If Jason's behind bars, maybe Jack will have the nerve to steer away from that shitty business before it wrecks his life too. Maybe go to school, study something, make a life for himself without having to follow in his brother's steps, his brother's shadow.

 

" _I_ put him in the spotlight?" Grantaire laughs, pointing at himself. He catches sight of Combeferre slowly rising up from his seat in the corner. "He put me in a fucking hospital bed. I think that makes us even."

 

Gueulemer smiles, but doesn't move. He stares Grantaire down for a whole minute, his hand going to touch his nose about three times in that lapse of time. 

 

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

 

Grantaire clenches his jaw but doesn't tear his eyes from Gueulemer's, because that would basically give him the green light to start punching the guts out of him. Any sign of weakness will be an invitation, and if Gueulemer is high --chances are 90% and up--, he's going to knock him out in record time. Still, if he doesn't stand up to him today, he'll have to do it tomorrow or the day after that. Better to get it over with now, when Combeferre's here to carry him home.

 

R sees a yellow blur moving on his right, and he internally prays for Combeferre not to choose this moment to open his mouth, because that would really be the last straw that'd break the camel's back. In this case, Gueulemer's back. 

 

The gang-member takes another step towards Grantaire, slowly, tentatively, the smile not leaving his face for a moment.

 

"I'll see you again, and we'll settle this down then" he nods to himself, as if making a resolution. "When you're in..." he looks him up and down, and snorts, "let's say, a healthier condition." 

 

Gueulemer shows him a menacing grin.

 

"Don't say I never did anything for you." He adds before pushing Babet and Claquesous towards the showers. Grantaire feels he can breathe again once he's seen him exit the place. Combeferre doesn't wait to approach him.

 

"We should go." He says. Grantaire smiles at him and turns to the punchbag.

 

"Relax, sweetheart. I'm here to protect you" he mocks, his hands automatically resuming the punching.

 

"You're clearly not welcomed here, and..." he steps in, preventing Grantaire from continuing with the hits. Then he takes both his hands into his grasp without warning. The bandages are starting to turn pink. "...and you've had enough."

 

"What are you, my mother?" R sighs, but he steps away. Without the drugs in his system, the pain's coming a lot stronger and a lot quicker, and Combeferre's starting to look worn down. "All right," he picks the bottle of water up from the floor. "...let me shower."

 

"You'll do that at home, come on." Ferre interrumpts, gesturing with his head towards the exit. 

 

"Oh my god, how does Courf put up with you?" he mumbles, before snatching his tank-top back from where he'd left it hanging, and walking towards the exit with Combeferre on his toes. "You're so bossy."

 

"And you're really looking for a fight, aren't you?"

 

" _Bossy_."

 

*    *    *

 

Before Combeferre even has time to retrieve the key from his pocket, the door is opening to reveal a nervous Courfeyrac. Behind him, on the sofa, is a not-so-nervous Enjolras. Grantaire steps in after Ferre, really hoping they haven't woken half the house up because of him. There's no-one else there, and the fact that Courfeyrac greets them with a whispery-shout reassures him of it.

 

"Why would you go out at this hour?!" Courf frowns at him, visibly unhappy. Grantaire puts his palms up in defense.

 

"I couldn't sleep, all right?"

 

"You could've taken the car instead of walking to the opposite part of town!"

 

Grantaire shrugs, prefering not to mention the fact that he doesn't have a car license. 

 

He's sure Combeferre does though, so hopefully Courf will take it out on him.

 

Sure enough, his glare is directed at his boyfriend immediately after. Grantaire thinks Courf looks like a scolding grandma.

 

"That would've defeated the purpose alltogether." Combeferre says.

 

Grantaire hides a smile by turning his head towards Enjolras, but he finds reproach on his face too. He rolls his eyes.

 

"I needed to clear my head, your boyfriend here" he makes a hand gesture toward Combeferre, standing next to him, "dutifully watched my every move. No harm done" he smiles to Courf, who still looks rather displeased. "Well, except for..." R adds, looking down at his hands and turning them around.

 

Courf lets out a gasp and steps towards him. Grantaire hides his hands behind his back.

 

"It's nothing, I'm used to it."

 

"R..." Courf warns him.

 

Combeferre lets out a huge yawn next to him. Grantaire takes this as an opportunity to flee.

 

"You better put your husband to sleep." He smirks, walking towards the staircase, ignoring Courf insistently whispering his name. "Nighty-night!" he whispers back, before climbing up the stairs. It's silent on the second floor, so he makes his way into the room silently as well. The air-conditioning is still on, and he's never been more grateful for anything in his life. He picks the first piece of underwear he sees and goes back outside before he gets too comfortable in the chilly air. The fragance of the shampoo dulls his senses and the constant sound of the water hitting the tiles starts to lull him to sleep. When he steps out of the shower, his hands start throbbing again, and he tries his best not to flex them much.

 

He tiptoes his way through the corridor and back into the dormitory, not wanting to wake Enjolras up again. But when he turns around after quietly closing the door, Enjolras is sitting on his bed, staring at him in the dark, and Grantaire almost jumps out of his skin.

 

"Jesus fuck-!" he gasps, as he reaches for the light switch. "Give a man a warning."

 

Enjolras smiles, obviously satisfied with his reaction.

 

"Where's the fun in that?"

 

Grantaire lets out a sigh and runs the towel through his wet hair a couple of times before hanging it from the opened wardrobe door, way too aware that he's only wearing boxers. It's the perfect temperature for him, but Enjolras is wearing sweatpants, and Grantaire feels it's about time he apologized about that.

 

"It's okay, I actually prefer the cold." he says. Grantaire goes to turn off the light, but Enjolras stops him with a "not yet" which completely puzzles him. He turns around with a frown, and Enjolras is shaking a box in the air. "Come here" he says, inviting Grantaire to approach with a head gesture.

 

R's throat is suddenly dry. He takes a sit down on his own bed, prefering to keep some distance, but Enjolras lets out a long sigh and climbs up next to him. Way too close.

 

"Show me your hands" he demands.

 

"Oh" Grantaire mumbles in realization, and immediately regrets it when Enjolras frowns funnily at him. The blond looks down at his bruised knuckles and makes a face in empathy.

 

"It's okay, I can do it myse--"

 

"Zip it." Enjolras cuts him off, applying some of the analgesic cream on one of his hands and gently holding one of Grantaire's with the other. R flinches down at the contact, and Enjolras mutters a very sweet and french-sounding 'sorry' which just goes to show how late it is. The french in him is slipping out.

 

While Enjolras is concentrated on the task, Grantaire is concentrated on Enjolras. On his lips, on his nose, on his eyelashes, on the golden curls, on his slim and delicate hands, on his lips, on the faint perfume of sheet softener that his clothes have caught up from the bed, on his chest going up and down, and on his lips. 

 

He swallows saliva through a dry throat, and breathes deeply.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

_Dead puppies, dead puppies, dead puppies._

 

"R!" Enjolras urges him. Grantaire opens his eyes.

 

"Hm?" He inquires with flushed cheeks.

 

"Your other hand" Enjolras grins, all too knowingly.

 

"Oh right sure, sure"

 

Enjolras keeps grinning for a couple more seconds, then he turns his attention back to Grantaire's hand, and he bites his lip. Grantaire turns his head and stares at the wall, hoping the blond doesn't notice his raging heartbeat. He starts shaking one of his feet without realizing.

 

Enjolras looks up questioningly.

 

"Sorry." R smiles awkwardly, and when Enjolras looks back down to his hands, Grantaire's eyes immediately go back down to his lips.

 

Suddenly the boxers feel way tighter than they did a minute ago.

 

_Dead puppies, dead pigeons, tarantulas, very hairy tarantulas._

 

_Fuck!_

 

"All done" Enjolras announces, putting the recipient back in the box and placing it aside.

 

"That's-- thank you, that's great" Grantaire tells him with a raspy voice, barely understanding the words coming out of his mouth.

 

Enjolras isn't moving, he isn't going back to his own bed, why isn't he going back to his own bed?

 

"I heard you almost got into a fight." He comments.

 

Oh, conversation? He's not in a fit state to have a conversation right now.

 

"Hm, _almost_ "

 

How long has it been since he got laid? How long since his last kiss?

 

His eyes stop in Enjolras' lips for a fraction of a second, then he lifts one of his hands up to rub at his eyes, trying to pretend he didn't just do that, but he forgets about the bruises and ends up flinching. Enjolras' cold fingers wrap around his wrist.

 

"Stop that" Enjolras says in an amused voice. "I didn't take you for the nervous type."

 

R lets out a shaky breath.

 

"Neither did I" he answers, before he's realized. "Wait-- no-- I mean-- you're obviously--"

 

"Very handsome?"

 

"Yes, but--"

 

_Busted._

 

He goes to ruffle his hair with his hand again, but Enjolras takes grip of both of them this time, and before Grantaire can so much as know what's happening, he's kissing him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's happening!!!!!!!!!! *insert here gif from The Office*  
>  Thank you all for reading! Comments are appreciated (:


	27. Sex and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starts out smutty, ends up angsty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: E/R smut below.

The knot in his stomach dissipates. He lets out a satisfied sigh that turns into a groan. His skin is burning and he feels as if a huge balloon of stiffness that he'd been carrying around has blown up inside of him, he feels, he feels too much.

He's lying down with Enjolras on top of him by the time they break the kiss. They're both panting, and Grantaire's heart's gone out of control.

When Enjolras sits up to take his shirt off, his weight is received by Grantaire's groin, and he can't help but let out a groan.

Without Enjolras' lips to swallow the sound, it pierces through the silent room.

Enjolras comes back down to kiss him, and Grantaire's hands grip his waist with force. This time it's Enjolras the one groaning.

"The door" Grantaire says, but he's out of breath. "The door" he repeats, and despite still not managing to make any sound, Enjolras seems to read his lips or understand his intentions.

Grantaire almost whines the moment Enjolras gets off him, missing the pressure pining him down almost instantly. But Enjolras locks the door and turns off the lights in record time, and he's back in the bed, his silhouette illuminated by the streetlight creeping through the window.

"You're so... fucking beautiful" R pants, and a moment later, he feels a cold hand wrapping around his cock through the boxers. His body unvoluntarily lifts up at the touch, and one of his hands goes to the back of Enjolras' head and pushes him down to kiss him eagerly.

Enjolras starts moving his body up and down slowly, tentatively, and it's torture, it's delicious, it's making him insane. He's too sensitive and too close too quick, and Enjolras is still touching him through his boxers, now completely damp.

One moment he's here and the next he's not. His vision goes blurry, his heart seems to skip a beat, and his hands tug at  Enjolras' hair a little bit too hard, though that doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. Quite the contrary, actually, judging by his face.

While R is coming down from his cloud, Enjolras places a long kiss on his neck.

"Shiiiiit" R pants. "That was... that was..."

Too much. That was too much. That was heavenly and it didn't last as long as he would've liked it to. He was _clearly_ touch-starved.

Once he's regained control of his thoughts, Grantaire's hands go to grip Enjolras' ass, and the blond pants right into R's neck. Breath hot and sweet.

Grantaire thinks he hears him say something in french, and he repeats the action just to be sure.

"What's that?" He asks, a soft laugh rising from his chest.

"Don't be a tease." Enjolras groans unhappily.

Grantaire makes them roll, and when Enjolras is on his back, he re-positions himself between his legs.

First, he takes those annoying sweatpants out of the way. Once that's done, one of his hands goes to trace the line of hair down into the boxers, while his tongue runs up and down the thickness rising up below the fabric.

R looks up and relishes in the faces Enjolras is making and the little sighs he's letting out. The blond's hands are gripping the sheets, but when Grantaire keeps teasing him through the fabric instead of getting rid of it, they come to pull insistently at his hair.

 _Fair enough,_  R thinks. Enjolras didn't make him suffer so.

He yanks the boxers down in one go, making Enjolras let out a needy whine, and takes his cock into his mouth.

For a moment he fears he might be out of practise --he wasn't really acustommed to giving blowjobs so much as receiving them-- but a couple of yanks at his curls from Enjolras tell him otherwise.

His eyes go up to see Enjolras wrap one of his hands over his mouth, and he wishes with all his being he could be able to hear him, to feel the pleasure vibrating through his body. But they're surrounded by bedrooms with sleeping people, so he pushes the thought out of his head and concentrates on the task at hand.

He goes up and down slowly rather than quick, sucking intently at the tip and then resuming the movement.

An urgent grip on his hair is everything Enjolras gives him as a warning, but he doesn't move away. He keeps sucking through the aftershocks, until every last drop of cum has come out, and longer.

He gently pulls the red boxers back up.

Then he supports his weight on his arms and contemplates Enjolras' godly features for a whole minute before the blond opens his eyes and makes a head gesture for him to go back up. Still breathless.

Grantaire is content to lie beside him until he's settled down.

The sheets are partially on the floor, and Grantaire pulls them back up to cover Enjolras, who makes a sleepy sound in response, and turns on his side.

They're face to face now, and Grantaire can't stop looking into Enjolras' blue eyes. Just how intense must the colour be, that he's able to see it when the room is partially sunk in darkness?

R runs a hand through the golden curls with calmness, Enjolras closes his eyes and shifts closer to Grantaire's body.

"Are you cold?" Grantaire asks, barely a whisper.

"Not at all, you're so warm" Enjolras smiles, not opening his eyes. And he nuzzles closer, like a cat getting comfortable.

Grantaire keeps running his fingers through Enjolras' hair soothingly, and suddenly he finds them sticky.

"I think I got cream on your hair" He talks, again, softly.

Enjolras breaks into a laugh. Grantaire follows right after.

And soon they're picking out damp hairs on his head.

"I'll get the towel" Grantaire says, but Enjolras wraps an arm around his waist before he can leave the bed.

"Nooo" He whines, and then Grantaire thinks he sees him pout. "Stay. I'll wash it in the morning."

Grantaire smiles despite himself and mutters a soft "ok" before settling back into a comfortable position.

Enjolras' hand goes to rest on Grantaire's hip and rubs gently at it. Almost lovingly. The gesture makes Grantaire want to kiss Enjolras again. And again. And again until the shape and taste of his lips is engraved in his long-term memory.

It occurs to him then, that they barely know anything about each other. At least _he_ doesn't know anything about  
Enjolras apart from his field of study and name.

He wonders if this is a convenient time to play twenty questions, but goes for it before he can change his mind. When, if not now? They just had sex, well... sort of.

He goes for something basic.

"How old are you?"

Enjolras opens his eyes and blinks sleepily, clearly not having seen the question coming.

"Twenty-four." He whispers.

Grantaire's stares at him, at a loss for words, because for some reason he'd thought being Courf's friend, he would be their same age. What stupid logic! Well, five years of difference isn't that much, is it?

"Don't look so spooked" Enjolras teases. "I'm legal."

Grantaire laughs nervously. He wasn't expecting the gap to be more than two years, but of course he's not going to tell Enjolras that.

"Besides, it's not as if you're forty" Enjolras adds.

Grantaire doesn't give an answer to that preposterous thought.

"Are you?" Enjolras goes serious all of a sudden.

"Okay, that's insulting." Grantaire protests. Enjolras laughs again, his breath caressing R's nose. "Have you got siblings?" He asks the next question that pops into his head.

Enjolras shakes his head no.

"Only child. You?"

"Same. What's your favourite colour?"

"Red"

"I should've guessed that" R laughs.

"What's with the interrogation?" the blond grins.

Grantaire shrugs.

"I just gave you a blowjob and the only thing I know about you is your name, I just thought I'd expand the list." He explains, then a second later it occurs to him that perhaps Enjolras isn't at all interested in that. Maybe he was just content with the situation and couldn't give a rat's ass about Grantaire's favourite colour or family tree, and here he was assuming otherwise. "Unless you don't care about that stuff" he's quick to add, and almost unconsciously his body gets a little closer to the edge of the bed and further from Enjolras. "In which case it's totally fine" he lies. "I'm okay with--"

"Grantaire"

"--that kind of relationship too--"

"Grantaire"

"-- _if_ you even want to call it a relationship. Don't feel obliged to on my beha--"

"Grantaire" Enjolras repeats, this time bringing his hand to cup R's face and stop him from continuing with his monologue.

"Yeah?" R whispers.

"What's your favourite colour?"

 

**   *

 

_Grantaire wakes up on his back, lying on a cold hard surface and staring at a familiar ceiling. His nostrils are impregnated with the sour smell of sweat and he feels sticky all over._

_"Come on!" Someone shouts near. Aggressive and urgent. Grantaire thinks he recognizes the voice but can't quite get his mind around it because there's someone circling his body on the floor as though he's a piece of meat about to be devoured by snatcher birds. "GET UP! COME ON!"_

_Grantaire tries to get up, but as soon as he makes a move, it feels as if a litre of blood is being poured into his mouth and he can't do much to prevent himself from choking. That is_ a lot _of blood he's swallowing._

_"GET HIM UP!" The muffled voice demands, and someone drags him into his feet by force but he couldn't be more grateful. The blood isn't obstructing his throat anymore, and he gasps for air._

_Back in a standing position, he recognizes the place as the boxing club, only cleaner and more spacious. The punching bags aren't there, and the boxing ring is in the centre of the room rather than on a side._ He _is inside the boxing ring._

_"I warned you Grantaire. You don't get to screw me up and walk away just like that" and the person shouting at him is Gueulemer._

_Grantaire opens his mouth to talk, to beg, but as soon as he does, another pint of blood falls from his mouth as if he'd just drank it and spat it out. Just how much blood can a person lose? He wonders, staring at the floor and noticing he's already standing in a huge pool of scarlet liquid._

_It makes no sense. He isn't even being hit. Gueulemer just keeps bouncing around exitedly, and Grantaire's ears are still clogged and he feels as if he's suffering the consequences of dozens of punches to his head without actually receiving them. His head throbs, his vision becomes more and more unfocused by the second, and he knows he's only standing in place by doing of either Babet or Claquesous. He just hopes they don't let him fall because that will mean he'll choke._

_Somehow, the moment he lets the thought into his head, he knows he's doomed. He's falling back before he knows it, and just as if he was drowning into the sea, he feels the blood pressing insistently against his throat and falling, falling endlessly. Its smell clouds his senses even more, and as he gasps for air to no avail, he hears Gueulemer's histeric laugh getting closer and closer until it's turned into an unbearable screech._  He wakes up with a desperate gasp for air.

His hands immediately wrap violently on the first thing at hand --his pillow-- in an attempt to ground himself. It takes him a couple of seconds to come to his senses, and he stumbles off the bed and sits on the floor, trying to lean down and catch his breath because he knows he's hyperventilating. And he knows that there _is_ enough air in the room --contrary to what his panicked brain wants to make him believe-- so he keeps repeating the words in his head as a mantra:

_Breathe, there is air. There is air. You've been here before, you know there is._

The problem is getting his lungs to comply and take in the air at the right moments and in the right amount. That's the trick that's difficult to pull out.

His heart isn't settling down and it's even making his stomach throb rhythmically. Painfully. His chest is starting to hurt too, and all he can do is grip his hair tightly with both hands. He can't even shout for help.

Luckily, he doesn't have to.

Enjolras rushes to his side the moment he steps into the room and hears the laboured breaths. Grantaire doesn't know who it is that's placed their hands over his and blocked the sunlight coming in through the window because his vision is going white, but he's grateful someone's here.

"R, just breathe, breathe..." Enjolras' urgent voice tells him, and although he doesn't want to leave him back alone, he does. He runs through the corridor and down the stairs. "FERRE!" He exclaims, maybe a little bit too loud seeing as he's but a couple of meters away from the kitchen, but he doesn't care. Combeferre looks up from his book with a jump, and is already out of his chair at the sight of a damp-haired, barefoot and shirtless Enjolras at the start of the stairs. "It's Grantaire" he tells him in french when the doctor's close enough. Combeferre runs up the stairs two steps at a time.

When he enters the room and clutches down in front of Grantaire, the brunette's face is already a fixed pained expression and his hands are slowly falling from his head to his lap, as if he's lost his strength.

"R?" Ferre exclaims, trying to look Grantaire in the eye, but Grantaire's eyes are unfocused and all he gets in response is a vague, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "Get me a paper bag!" He orders Enjolras, who doesn't waste any time and stumbles out of the room. "R?" Ferre pats him in the cheek with one hand and takes his pulse with the other. "Stay with me, you're fine, stay with me..." But he can see with clarity the moment Grantaire's eyes roll up and go white before closing completely. "Damn it!" He curses.

Enjolras comes back in with the paper bag and Courfeyrac and Joly on his tail, just as Ferre is opening the window to let air in.

"It's okay Courf, he's just passed out" he reassures his boyfriend before he jumps into his usual dramatic conclusions. "Help me get him on the bed" he asks no-one in particular.

Enjolras gets his feet and Combeferre slips his hands under his arms.

"Get his feet up." Combeferre orders, but Joly is already re-entering the room with a handful of cushions brought from various rooms. "Can you get my stuff?" Ferre now addresses Courf, who nods and leaves the room in the blink of an eye. "Joly, get me a damp cloth, please."

Enjolras sits down on his bed and chews on his nails as Combeferre checks that Grantaire's head is properly resting on the pillow. Then he takes Grantaire's pulse on his wrist for a minute whilst staring at the clock on the wall. Courfeyrac walks in in the middle of the procedure and anxiously waits by the door until he's done. Then he hands Ferre the bag.

He goes through the usual procedure, checking his pupils with the flashlight, double-checking his heart with the stethoscope, and feeling for bumps around the skull. Everything's in place and pointing to a panic attack.

"He was hyperventilating when you left the room?" He asks Enjolras.

"When I came in he was already like that, yeah" he nods. "But he was fine when I left for the bathroom." He adds. "I must have been about ten minutes."

"Will he be okay?" Courf chimes in, and comes to sit next to Enjolras.

"He's fine" Ferre nods, taking the damp cloth from Joly and asking the EMT to bring up a tray with some food. "He woke up agitated. He'll come to in no time." He smiles reassuringly in Courf's direction.

Then he re-directs his gaze to Grantaire, letting out a long sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, pleeease let me know what you think!


	28. Inner War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's mind just doesn't stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY 2018! Best wishes to you all and a lot lot lot lot loooooot of love. Enjoy the chapter! ♥

Grantaire lets out a tired and long groan, announcing he's regained consciousness. Courf is at his side before he even opens his eyes.

"Ugh..." he presses a hand into his forehead. "I just had _the_ worst nightmare ever." He says to no-one in particular, with a raspy voice and squinting eyes. When they come into focus, he frowns at the face staring down at him. "Courf?"

Then a voice that is not Courfeyrac's comes from the left side of the bed, where R sees Combeferre leaning against the wall.

"A nightmare isn't the only thing you had" Ferre says, and Grantaire lets out a curse when he catches sight of a stethoscope inside a bag at the foot of the bed.

Then the images of the bloody boxing ring are replaced by those of a very shiny room, and one of his hands goes to rest on his chest.

"Splendid." He mumbles sarcastically.

Courfeyrac helps him into a sitting position while Combeferre brings around a tray with orange juice and a couple of toasts.

He snatches the glass and swallows the liquid, eager to soften his dry throat.

"Easy" Ferre warns him. "Small sips"

But Grantaire's already finishing up the glass, and when Combeferre scowls at him, he only shrugs.

"Thirsty." He smiles, like a kid that knows he will get away with it.

"I can see that." Ferre answers as he takes the glass. "I'll bring you some more. _Don't_ get up." He points at him warningly before exiting the room.

Grantaire runs his hands over his face and pointedly avoids Courf's puppy eyes. He glances at Enjolras' bed, but he isn't there.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Comes Courfeyrac's soft voice.

"Nope." Grantaire answers promptly, and Courf looks away and sits up straight. R lets out a long sigh. "Sorry Courf" he mumbles. Courfeyrac is probably the last person in the world who needs to hear about this. He's got enough in his plate as it is.

"I get it." Courf nods, but doesn't look R in the eye again.

"You need to understand that--" Grantaire starts, but cuts himself off when he hears footsteps approaching. A moment later, Combeferre steps in with the glass.

He's not going to tell Courf he was being beaten to death in a boxing ring and choking on blood. He doesn't _need_ to know that. What would that change? It'll just make Grantaire the target of a renewed wave of pity and that's the last thing he needs.

Combeferre doesn't let him get up for another ten minutes after he's finished breakfast. He does bring his toys out of the bag again to check "everything's fine" before he gives him the green flag.

 

 

" _Yeah_ everything's fine" Grantaire mutters under his breath as he makes his way to the bathroom ten minutes later. "Been there, done that."

_You're being selfish. They care about you, they're trying to help._

"No, they're making a big deal of it is what they're doing." He replies to his own righteous self, before stepping into the shower. He stays there for a good twenty minutes, just sitting under the water, feeling it cascading over his head, his back, cold, colder. He doesn't put shampoo on. He barely has the energy to snatch the soap and run it over his legs carelessly. Over his arms. That's where he stops. He stares at his tattooed arms. Colourful. He rubs the soap over and over, do the colours ever fade?  
  
Over and over again, on the crook of his arm. Left arm, where he'd used to put the syringe on. In. Inside. Inside his flesh, and push, push, push...

He closes his eyes and exhales.

He'd push, and within a few minutes, everything was better. Whatever was wrong, it wasn't anymore. It wasn't wrong, it wasn't anything.

There's a knock on the door and he snaps his head up way too quick, he sees white.

"Five minutes!" he answers, no doubt that's what the person on the other side wants to know. _I'm fine. I'll be out in no time. No drugs in here, I'm not sniffing the toothpaste, all right? Gimme a fucking break._

There's no answer from the other side, so he stands up and closes the water tab. He's still seeing white; he tries not to trip on his way to the toilet. He sits there and catches his breath because apparently he's running out of it.

_I'm fine._

"Go away" he mutters. To himself. To the nausea.

Someone outside is speaking french. It's a familiar voice. Enjolras' perhaps.

He hasn't seen him today. That's ok, he's not clingy. A blowjob doesn't mean anything, it's just a blowjob. They don't know each other --red, no siblings, likes politics, twenty-four--, he's not his boyfriend. He doesn't have to check on him after he's had a nightmare, he doesn't have to care. _Grantaire_ doesn't have to care.

It's okay that he doesn't want to see him. Maybe he wasn't so good at blow-jobing people as he thought he was.

_Blow-jobing?_

Maybe Enjolras was just being nice, polite, maybe that was the french way. A one-night-stand.

Grantaire hopes he isn't. Because they're sharing a bedroom, and last night they shared a bed, and if he's going to have to sleep so close to Enjolras but won't be given permission to touch, to feel, to know, well, he's not sure he can take that. Enjolras is funny, and handsome and intelligent and he _gets_ him.

Or does he?

They don't talk much, granted, so why would Enjolras "get him"? They weren't specially close before last night, why would oral sex change any of that? It's not going to bring them any closer. There's nothing in the world that they share, have in common.

Courfeyrac, perhaps. But Grantaire somehow feels that Courfeyrac is more Enjolras' than his.

He has neither of them, then. And he doesn't have the right to. And just because they're letting him stay here doesn't mean a thing. A blow-job doesn't mean a thing. Sharing a bedroom doesn't mean a thing. It doesn't now and it won't when Grantaire is left alone again. They'll just vanish, and it makes his stomach turn.

Before he knows it he's turning around in the blink of an eye and emptying his stomach.

Goodbye juice, goodbye toast.

_Push, push, push..._

He spends five more minutes just sitting there, holding his head, tasting his sour saliva and not giving a fuck. But he said five minutes, so he flushes the toilet and gets a towel. He puts some toothpaste in his mouth just so he doesn't stink of vomit. He doesn't have the energy to brush his teeth. What's the fucking point? He'll be kissing no one today. Enjolras is _not_ his boyfriend.

_Push, push, push..._

_How long has it been?_

_It doesn't matter._

_Yes it does, it won't just go away, you know it, you need it._

_I don't need it. I don't want it._

_I do want it, but I don't need it. Or perhaps I don't want it, but I need it._

He's making no sense.

_I don't want to._

_Just imagine their faces. Besides, I haven't got any money._

_Push, push, push..._

He doesn't dry his hair. It'll keep him cool for a while. There's no-one in the corridor, and he makes his way to his bedroom praying there's no-one waiting for him there either. Why? Because he's edgy. He can feel it in his blood, he can feel it everywhere, and anyone who crosses path with him will be able to know too. The doctors will know. Combeferre. He can't have them knowing. _They'll ruin everything. Just, act normal, just breathe, don't forget to breathe, you know how to breathe normal. Just breathe. Don't talk too much, but don't stay silent. Don't fidget, don't bite your tongue or your inner cheeks --you'll draw blood--._

_Blood._

Just a dot, every time he went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Every time Montparnasse was gone, or asleep. Right there, above the rainbow lace he got in that festival in spring, last year, he even got a discount because he had marijuana on him. What a trade!

_Above the rainbow, a dot of blood._

His hand is trembling, he stares at it, holding the shirt. His heart is slowing down. His hand is trembling, that is new. Maybe a little nicotine will fix that.

_Fix._

_Fix._

_Fix it._

_You know how to_ fix _it, so_ fix _it._

He puts on the shirt, quick. When he turns around, he startles, for Courfeyrac is standing on the threshold. _Shit._

Shit shit shit, how long has he been there?

"How long have you been there?" he blurts out. _What? No!_ _What a fucking stupid question! What does that fucking matter? It only matters if you've been doing something that shouldn't be seen, which you haven't... It would only matter if people could read your thoughts, which they can't. Except they can, people can read your thoughts through your body language._ Is Courfeyrac a good body-language-reader? Can he read that Grantaire is fucking desperate? Had he seen his hand tremble?

"Just a second" Courfeyrac answers, all nonchalantly, as if he'd seen nothing.

_Liar._

_Traitor._

_Go and tell them, won't you?_

"Are you feeling okay?" Courf takes a step closer, and Grantaire turns to the bed, pretending he's looking for something. Cigarettes. He knows he doesn't have any, but Courfeyrac doesn't know, so that'll do.

"Why wouldn't I be?" He answers, having his own try at this "nonchalance" thing. At this bullshitting thing. _Bullshit_. _Why wouldn't I be? Because I'm_ me _._

"Well, you had a panic attack earlier." Courf answers, this time a little more sharply. There you go, that's better.

"Oh, that!" exclaims Grantaire. A little bit too high. "Don't worry, not my first rodeo."

Courf opens his mouth to retort, but in that very moment Bahorel --oh, sweet sweet Bahorel, he could kiss him-- runs in.

"You ready? We're waiting" he alternates his gaze between Courf and him.

"Yeah, we're coming" Courf answers vaguely, giving Bahorel a look. That look again. _Just one more minute, I need to tell him off, we'll be right down,_ he might as well have said, well not today. He can't have these conversations today, he's a ticking time-bomb, and if Courfeyrac starts poking him and playing with the wires this early in the morning, he'll go off by midday, which, would not be pleasant at all, because: "We're eating out."

"Oh" Grantaire says, as he puts his converse on.

Oh. What he really means is: fuck me.

He was hoping he could skip lunch. Isn't he the luckiest guy on earth?

A restaurant. People. Everyone there. Grantaire eating under the scrutinizing gaze of Combeferre a couple of chairs away and the insistence of Joly right next to him. Jitters because Enjolras is staring, Courfeyrac is frowning, Marius and Cosette are whispering in a corner, thinking they're being subtle. He's hyperventilating, both his hands are trembling, his throat remains dry no matter how much water or juice he downs. Everyone knows now, but it's too late, because he's been pretending for thirty minutes, he's already eaten the food to deceive them. All that effort and no reward? He'll turn around, run up to the bathroom, throw up all over the floor and be kicked out. What a beautiful scene. Yes, he can see it in his mind. Foreshadowing. Is that one of his new superpowers? One more symptom?

As he walks out of the house, hands hidden in the pockets of his shorts, he feels as though he's being walked to the gallows. A show to which everyone will have access. _Ladies and gentlemen, get closer! Yes, you! Have a look! A junkie! First and last exclusive show, don't miss it! Ow, aren't we all sorry for him? Don't we all pity him? Yes, let's give him a round of applause, he deserves it. He's trying so hard, isn't he?_

"Please tell me you got a cigarette" he pleads to Bahorel when he takes a sit next to him. It's only four in this car. Bossuet is driving, Joly as his co-pilot. Of course, someone needs to be near in case he passes out again. That's just how it is.

"I don't smoke" Bahorel shrugs.

Grantaire makes a face.

"I saw you smoking bro" he laughs, hoping he's just fucking with him, because he really liked this guy. Is he jumping on the bandwagon too? _Let's keep Grantaire clean until he bursts like a nut! No alcohol! No nicotine! Choo-choo!_ "Come on" R extends his hands and wiggles it.

"Dude, I don't smoke" Bahorel repeats, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Something inside Grantaire snaps.

He bits his tongue really hard and draws his hand back to the pocket.

"O'right" he mutters.

His mouth tastes like blood.

"Hey, can you please tell Grantaire that I don't smoke?" he calls, slightly leaning forward. "'Cos he doesn't believe me and is giving me a murder look."

_Yeah, you just joke, but I really would like to strangle you right now. Ha-ha._

"No-one of us smokes." Joly half-turns around to look at Grantaire. As if that's going to make the words sound any less _bullshit_. "Enjolras used to, when he was too stressed. Combeferre made him quit."

Grantaire smiles and nods.

"Yeah sure."

Joly looks him up and down, and when his gaze half-stops midway, Grantaire crosses his legs to divert the attention.

"So where are we going? Some lil fancy restaurant?" He asks, anything to make Joly turn around. _Look, I'm making conversation, I'm completely chill, nothing wrong over here, look back, come on, look back._

"Nope." Bossuet answers.

Or at least he thinks that was Bossuet. It might have been Joly next to him. He doesn't know anymore, they all sound the same.

He waits for the answer. It doesn't come.

He doesn't push. _  
_

_Push, push, push..._

His right hand twitches. He imagines it putting the syringe in, slowly, maybe not so slowly. Needy. It'd go away... He wouldn't mind that Bahorel doesn't have a cigarrette or that Bossuet or Joly aren't telling him where the fuck they're going, he wouldn't mind that Enjolras avoided his gaze just before he got into the red volvo, he wouldn't want to punch himself for making himself look his way. Nothing would matter. If he could just-- urgh.

"Can you roll the window down?" He mumbles to Bahorel.

"But the--"

_But the air conditioning?_

_Fuck that._

_"_ Your deodorant is turning my stomach." He says. Joly turns around to ask if he's all right; Grantaire waves his hand and nods vaguely. _We can stop? No, don't stop. If we stop everyone stops, and it'll be a fucking show, and that's not bound to happen until we're all seated at a huge table in the middle of a public place, remember?_

"Oh, sorry man" Bahorel answers, as he squeezes his shoulder in a gesture of companionship. Grantaire almost feels guilty at hearing him apologize so dearly.

_Almost._

A wave of hot air comes in through the window and ruffles his hair. Nobody says anything. It's pretty fucking hot, why aren't any of them complaining? It's a fucking furnace outside, the sun is at its highest, and now they're letting the vapor come in. Just because he asked to. Why are they so fucking _good_?

_Why are you looking for a fight?_

_I'm not!_

_You're looking for a fight._

_Fine! What else am I supposed to do? No drugs, no alcohol, not even a fucking cigarette?! I need to let out steam somehow, and if breaking someones face is the way to do it, then so be it._

He brings both his hands to his face, and rubs, rubs, rubs violently... _What the_ fuck _?_

Bahorel's hand is on his shoulder again, hot like a furnace. It's almost painful. _Boiling._

Something is boiling inside of him. Rage? Tears? Will he punch someone and cry at the same time? _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for doing this, but I need to, I can't take it anymore... I need something.  
_

He feels the vehicle slowing down, and his inner-alarm goes off.

"I'm fine! Don't stop" he barks, unintentionally. Or maybe intentionally.

There's a noise. He makes a face. Nobody else seems to be hearing it, they're speaking to each other just well, he can see their mouths move.

"It's nothing, I'm just a lil dizzy" he blurts out, making an effort to sit up straight and look a little less like he wants to throw himself out of the window.

To his relief, the car doesn't stop. The sound in his ears goes away just as suddenly as it came. Joly starts turning around every thirty seconds. Grantaire pretends he doesn't see him. The window is still open, the hands are still trembling. He focuses on the music coming from the radio, and before he knows it, they've reached their destination. He's the first to unbuckle the seat belt and doesn't even try to pretend this time, he jumps out of the car in a jiffy.

Outside, he takes deep breaths.

_It's just lunch. Just lunch. You can survive this. It'll be no more than two hours. Two hours and you'll be done. Finished. Gold medal for you. Well done! Good job! You didn't snap at anyone! You didn't shout at the waiters! You didn't punch anyone! You didn't break anything!_

Oh, if only.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if there's anything off! I've proof-read it a handful of times, but I might've missed stuff. I'll fix fix fix any mistakes tomorrow! Hehe...


	29. The Door, The Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R is doing good, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right people, I'm posting this even though it's 4:30am and there's probably a lot of editing to do. Just, happy new year everyone.

The "no smoking" sign on the door is what triggers Grantaire's headache. But that's not a surprise, anything seems to trigger headaches as of late. He was hoping to borrow a couple of bucks from someone and cross the street to get some cigarettes, though, so that's a bummer.

Maybe if he goes up to the lady at the kiosk and puts on his most miserable face she'll take pity on him. Because everyone takes pity on him. Shouldn't be so hard, should it? Puppy eyes? No one can resist puppy eyes. He doubts she'd be up for a blow-job. She is, most probably, someone's granny. He can even imagine her lifting her telephone to call the cops on him should he ever offer any kind of "dubious trade". He'd have more luck if it was a bloke. But it isn't.

Luck? What is that? Do you eat it?

Maybe someone in the police station will have a smoke, or are those non-smoking places too?

Well, not everything is dull and grim, he thinks. The restaurant doesn't have sixteenth century tables, so they're split in three groups. Marius and Cosette are seated together, which is unusual, honestly, don't those two hate each other? Why are they suddenly pretending to be a couple? Grantaire never would've guessed it. Is this some kind of role-play? What's going on? Why are they hugging each other? He could've sworn they'd been arguing the night before. What a couple of idiots. Jehan is with them. So is Musichetta.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras are on the farthest table. Thank god. _The trio. The best-friends trio. The doctor, his boyfriend and their child. Honestly, Enjolras, look away, who the fuck cares? Pretend I'm not here, it'll be good for everyone. Just for the record, I wouldn't be here if I could be somewhere else, all right?_ Anywhere _else._

Bossuet doesn't stop muttering things to Joly, like Grantaire's some kind of retarded person that doesn't know how to solve a puzzle. _I know you're talking about me, and that you're trying to distract me so that I don't feel so self-conscious, Bahorel. Well, my pal, my dude, I've got fucking news for you: 'Self-conscious' is my middle name, so you can fucking stop playing this ridiculous--  
_

"Sir?"

Grantaire startles.

Looks up. There's a waiter.

"Uh- no thanks" he blurts out. _No thanks, unless you're offering me cigarettes, vodka or angel dust._

 _Or vodka_ and _angel dust. Oh, the dream.  
_

"He'll have the same as me" Bahorel says.

Grantaire clenches his jaw.

The sound of chit-chatting and cutlery against plates is like wood being thrown into a fireplace. It's getting hotter and hotter, there's no more space for wood, stop throwing it in, can't you see the flames are too big? Yes, his mind is the fireplace. No, he doesn't think he'll make it through those two hours. Joly knows this, which is why he leans over the table and advises him to go to the bathroom and refresh.

Grantaire tries to feign indifference, but he's truly screaming inside. An excuse to go to the bathroom without being suspicious or stared at? A permission. He got a permission to go use the toilet.

It's not going to make a difference, unless there's a stash of drugs hidden inside the toilet, or a pack of discarded cigarettes inside a trash-bin. That's a possibility. Still, he would need a lighter. Maybe he can sneak into the kitchen when nobody's watching, there ought to be a back-door where cooks go out to smoke, there's always a back door.

The bathroom is empty. He washes his face just to keep up with appearances. _Be a good boy, go to the bathroom and wash your face. Then you'll get a candy from Dr. Joly._ There's also a window, but it's too small. He'd probably get stuck. Or maybe not. A few scratches surely. They've only been here for ten minutes, for gosh sake!

No, it's not really been ten minutes. It's been six days. Six long, tedious, tortuous days. This is getting worse. It's getting out of control. He's been trying to keep it together, but that nightmare marked the beginning of the ending. He woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, and he's going to keep waking up on that same side if he doesn't do something about it. It's not going to stop, unless he stops it himself. And how does he stop it?

It's a reflex, it's automatic, his hand goes to rest on the rainbow on his left arm. He presses a finger, the nail... His nails aren't sharp enough to pierce through the skin. It's as close as he can go. A faint pain.

Unless he stops it himself.

How does he stop it?

Nobody's stopping him. Nobody will. They're all too gentle. They're going to watch him turn into a train wreck. They'll see him explode, set the house on fire, they can't do anything to prevent it from happening. They have been trying for six days. Six days and eleven hours. What do they want from him? Is this some sort of conspiracy? _Let's push all the buttons until one of them works. Enjolras, well done, you cracked him!_

What's going to happen when they go back home? Is he going to sleep on the sofa? Will Enjolras suddenly go back to acknowledging his existence? He could've at least spoken to him about it. "I wasn't thinking straight last night", he'd say. "No shit" Grantaire would answer. He told him, he did tell him. No compromise. He shouldn't have said anything. By telling the blond that they didn't need to get attached, he was doing just the opposite. He was letting him know --albeit unconsciously-- that he needed to get attached. If he'd just kept his mouth shut... If he'd just gone to sleep... Perhaps everything would be normal between them. The boring normal. But not this let's-pretend-this-never-happened charade.

And if he goes up to Cosette and tells her that he can't share a room with Enjolras anymore, she'll ask why. And there's nothing he could come up with that would work. Say she does agree to him moving room, then what? Everyone would be wondering what had happened. Enjolras would put on his poker face, they'd both make up lies. As if they'd done something so terrible that could not be spoken of.

Perhaps Enjolras hadn't come out yet? Could that be it? That would explain everything, wouldn't it?

_He wasn't ignoring you like this before._

_And there's also that time at the Supernova, he wasn't ignoring you that time either._

_He even sat next to you at breakfast, with his newspaper._

He opens back the water tap, watches it run, breathes in and out, in and out...

_You're fine, you're fine._

He splashes water on his face.

_In, out, in, deep, out, deep._

This is so hard. If he'd known it was going to be so hard, he wouldn't have agreed to it. Yes, the disappointment would've hurt, seeing Courfeyrac begging him, crying, hugging him, that would've hurt too. But not this much. He's holding on by his fingertips. He's ready to fall, why is he still holding on? He doesn't know. But something is making him. Somebody is making him. _He_ is making him. He's never come this far before. Maybe if he just waits a little more, it'll be all right. Like the sun that always comes back out, doesn't matter how long the storm.

The Doctor warned him. The nurses warned him. They gave him leaflets. He threw them away.

He shakes his head, rubs his face with wet hands again. Runs them through his curls.

Warnings are useless. They're just words. "It's going to hurt, it's going to be difficult". You just nod. Nod and think you'll be able to cope. But he isn't. He isn't coping. He can't wait this much. When they go back to France, he thinks, when they go back, you can go back too. But how much longer? How much longer does he have to wait? He certainly had the math wrong. But that's not news. He always sucked at math.

He lets out a laugh.

There's nothing funny. That's not an actual laugh. It's a half-whine, half-grunt. It's the fireplace exploding.

He looks to the door, then to the window. And his hands start shaking again.

_Go back, go back._

_Go back? Where? Go back to the table? Go back to the drugs?_

_To the table._

He takes a step towards the door.

Just one step. That's how far he can go. Something is pulling him back. Towards the wall. Towards the window. It's not that small. He can fit. He fits. Oh, how he wishes he didn't fit, how he wishes it was too small. Then he wouldn't have to choose. It'd be easy. No decision-making, because there'd only be one choice. Going back to the table. But the window isn't too small, it's big enough.

_They will already be wondering where you are, there's no time to leave. Somebody will walk in and catch you in the act, and they'll intercept you in the street, if they aren't already waiting for you there. Because you're the most predictable person to ever walk this earth._

It hurts. From his head to his toes, it hurts inside, in his stomach, in his ribs, in every pore of his body, it hurts, but he rushes out of the bathroom. Almost runs into a waiter, granted, but he doesn't sneak away like a rat. What was he supposed to do? With no money? No money, no drugs. And Montparnasse had sent his dealer to jail. Not that he didn't know where to find another one, but-- Montparnasse.

_Montparnasse._

"Montparnasse!" his voice echoes, and just for a second, just a second, as he hugs him and the familiar smell of leather reaches his nose, Grantaire forgets everything. It smells like home, and Montparnasse feels like family. He's still hugging him, _that's enough, let him go, breathe before you pass out, don't cry now, just sit back down._

 _You sneaky bastards_ , Grantaire thinks, as Mont takes a sit on the chair Bahorel had been using.

"How are you?" Parnasse asks, leaning closer and placing a hand around his shoulders.

Grantaire opens his mouth to answer, but finds out he can't. His eyes are watering.

_Shit, no. Stop it. You didn't jump out that window, now get yourself together for fuck's sake._

It's because he's touching him. _But I don't want him to stop._

"You've been busy enough not to pay a visit" Montparnasse comments, makes conversation, gains time, smiles at Bossuet and Joly.

_Bless you, Parnasse. I fucking love you._

"Eponine's been insufferable, how can you not drop by? Five minutes? She'll have your head, there will be blood" he jokes, but rubs a hand between Grantaire's shoulder-blades. He still can't catch his breath. Is this another attack?

"R, we can drive you home if you're not feeling well" comes Joly's voice, clear and loud. He's close. "It's not a problem."

He shakes his head.

One, two, three, four, five seconds.

 _Yeah, all right,_ he wants to nod. It's Montparnasse's hand pressing down. He would've kept up with the show. He wouldn't even be holding back tears if Montparnasse hadn't showed up. He would've taken a moment to be proud of himself for not giving up, then he would've gone back to pretending it's not as hard as it looks. It's Montparnasse. He sets him right. He can't lie with Montparnasse next to him. Joly knew already, he's known since the car ride. But to Grantaire, that wasn't valid. It didn't matter that Joly knew, he was still going to act it out. But with Parnasse here, he can't do that. What is this fucking witchcraft? Who is he, Wonder Woman? And his hand the lace of truth?

_Superhero references, I'm fucking losing it._

"Let's go take a walk, you wanna take a walk?" Parnasse offers, and Grantaire nods, although in reality, what he should be doing is snapping at him for treating him like a toddler. He doesn't think he's ever heard him speak that way. Maybe to Gavroche?

He's half expecting someone to stand up along with them, but apparently they trust Montparnasse not to give him any drugs, because nobody follows them outside. Not physically. Grantaire does feel like he owes Courfeyrac at least a smile or a gesture to let him know everything's fine --even though it isn't--. Courf doesn't stand up, though Grantaire isn't sure Combeferre isn't actually holding his hand below the table to prevent him from doing so.

He can't help it, Enjolras is right next to them, so naturally, he catches his eyes too. _Naturally._

Enjolras was looking. Grantaire looked away first, as Montparnasse led him outside, still a hand on his back. Grantaire knows he'll break the moment they're out of sight, the moment he lifts that hand. And Montparnasse knows, too. That's why he hasn't lift it yet. Montparnasse knows that he knows.

They find some shade round the corner, in a narrow street, they sit on a bench outside an old-bookshop. It reads 'closed' on the sign. Good. No prying eyes to witness his misery.

"You're so tense" Parnasse mumbles, once they've sat down, the hand rubbing harder now.

"Please tell me you've got a smoke" is what comes out, quickly and desperately and almost unintelligible. Montparnasse sighs. "It's just a cigarette, I'm dying here" he pleads, and looks him in the eyes. Montparnasse reaches into one of the inner pockets of the jacket. Grantaire knows he keeps them there, he knows he keeps the lighter on that other pocket too, but he's trying to remain calm and not to snatch. He can look and sound desperate, but he's still got some strength in him not to _act_ desperate. Still.

Two drags and he's almost finished it. He closes his eyes and leans back. Montparnasse withdraws the hand.

The hand holding the cigarette is shaking, the other one he's got it hidden, as he's grown accustomed.

"You're doing good, R" he says, softly, staring.

Grantaire finds that he doesn't find his staring annoying.

He laughs.

"It sure looks like that, doesn't it?" he answers.

Montparnasse sits back too, takes Grantaire's other hand between his own, to make it stop shaking. The gesture brings the tears back to his eyes. Brings the memories back to his mind.

"It looks like what it is." Parnasse says, putting the pack of cigarettes back into the jacket after Grantaire snatches another one from it. He lights it up for him and takes the first drag. Grantaire snatches it out of his mouth. "And what it is is effort."

R makes a guttural sound.

_Effort my ass. But thanks, man._

"I know you don't believe so, you've always been hard on yourself."

He holds the smoke in as long as he can, then he slowly lets it out. It's not as good as he remembered. Because he needs something so much stronger. Cigarettes are a 1. He needs a 10.

"So I'm telling you so you know: you're doing good. All right?"

"Uh-huh" he takes another drag, the last one. As much as he can.

"I want to hear you say it."

Grantaire stares as the cigarette falls on the floor, as the fire starts dying down.

"Come on" Montparnasse insists, now turning Grantaire's face to look at him. R gives him an amusing look.

"You do remember I'm like, older than you right?"

"I am doing good." Montparnasse says, articulating every syllable, then he nods towards Grantaire with raised eyebrows. "I am, doing, gooood."

That elicits a laugh. Hell, what has _he_ been smoking?

"Don't laugh at me" Montparnasse smiles, and gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I'll give you another cigarette."

_Bastard._

"No you won't."

He draws the pack out of his pocket and shows it to him.

"But what if I do?"

R takes a deep breath, looks around to make sure there's no-one near.

"I am doing good" he mutters.

"Come again?"

_Motherfucker._

"I'm doing good!" Grantaire exclaims. "I'm doing good, all right? I'm fucking perfectly good! I almost-" his voice breaks. "I almost fucking jumped out of a bathroom window, I feel like shit all the time, I can't sleep, and I want to punch everyone! Why- why do I want to punch them? They're trying to help, dude, they're just trying to help me..." his voice is muffled, Montparnasse is hugging him. _He's_ hugging Montparnasse. "I don't like who I'm becoming..."

"You're not becoming anyone, R. This will pass. It will pass. You didn't jump, all right? Look, you're here."

"If I'd had any money, I would've, I would've, I swear I wanted to..."

" _But you didn't._ " Montparnasse snaps. He cups Grantaire's face with both hands and makes him look up. " _You didn't_ "

"And I'm angry all the time, _all the time_..." he grits his teeth. "Even when there's no reason to be angry."

"You have a reason to be angry. It's part of the process, nobody's going to blame you."

It doesn't matter that they don't blame him! There shouldn't be anything to be blamed for in the first place!

"I want to go back with you" R says, and yes, he's sounding like a kid now. Granted.

Montparnasse lets out a long, long sigh.

Grantaire's chest feels just a little bit less constricted. He can take in just a little bit more air now.

"I can't help you like they do." Parnasse says. He knows. Grantaire knows.

"They don't let me out of their sight." R answers, thought it doesn't sound as a complaint, which is what he was going for.

"So I've heard." Montparnasse says, softly, but Grantaire can almost hear the smile in his words. He sits back up so he can look him in the face.

"What does that mean?" he frowns.

"It means Feuilly has the hots for Eponine."

Grantaire snorts. Then he remembers that Feuilly wasn't sitting at any table.

"Yeah, they're like past second base. He's even babysitting Gavroche, the poor fella'. The things one does for love, right?"

But what does it mean, "so I've heard"?


	30. Mission: Failed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R looks for an escape route, only to end up back in square one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! I made a [PLAYLIST](http://smuggsy.tumblr.com/post/169491724714/loveincrema-i-try-desperately-to-run-through-the), if anyone's interested.

Grantaire doesn't eat. He watches others eat, mostly. Food is the last thing he wants right now, which is why Montparnasse ate the tuna salad Bahorel had ordered for him. He loses count of how many times he finds himself in the bathroom, but after the third visit, he stops gagging. There's nothing in his stomach to be thrown out, but the mix of smells is just as tortuous. Tuna, leather, perfume, grilled cheese, lemonade. It's too much for his sharpened senses. The nicotine isn't helping like he thought it would. Of course it isn't. He knew it wouldn't work, but still, it was better than nothing. He was making do.

Montparnasse doesn't stop looking behind himself, and Grantaire actually rolls his eyes and tells him to go sit with Jehan after ten straight minutes of witnessing the pining.

"Honestly, it's exasperating to watch" he tells him. "Go buy him an ice-cream or something." He suggests, and Montparnasse doesn't need to be told twice; with a little push from Grantaire's part, he's making his way towards Marius and Cosette's table. Jehan smiles at him like he's the world. Grantaire smiles too, and wishes there was someone who elicited that smile in him too. Or someone in which he could elicit it. He catches Enjolras' eyes again, after that thought.

_Ridiculous._

He looks back to the front, where Bossuet is downing his second can of coke.

"You want to go?" Joly asks him. He's been asking variations of the same question over the last hour, every ten minutes or so.

"I want a beer" R answers, sighing. He cuts Joly off before he can finish the first word of his predictable sentence: "I know, I know, no food no alcohol."

"Then eat something" Bahorel re-appears, back from Enjolras' table. If Grantaire thinks he smells Enjolras' cologne on him, he doesn't say anything. He hadn't been looking, had they been hugging and whispering things to each other too? Like every-goddamn-one of them? Honestly, even Feuilly has someone to whisper to too.

A blurry image of Bahorel way too close and intruding Enjolras' personal space suddenly returns to him.

Loud music, bright lights, too colorful.

A bar, Jason, a bathroom.

Pain in his chest.

White, all white.

"I was thinking of dropping by The Musain" he comments, trying to steer away from his own thoughts, then looks at Joly, then realizes he's asking for permission. "Feuilly and I can catch a bus home." He adds, the word 'home' feeling foreign on his tongue.

_Assuming he's still there._

_Please don't be there._

When was the last time he was alone? _Truly_ alone?

"I don't see why not" Bossuet says, then turns to Joly, and Grantaire thanks him internally for picking his side.

"We can drop you off" the EMT answers, and the little balloon of hope growing inside of Grantaire pops.

He's not getting them out of his hair any time soon, is he? When is he supposed to wind down if they're following him around all day like a fucking child? At this rate, he's really going to end up getting in a very nasty fight.

Nasty fights, that's what he needs.

"You up for some boxing?" He turns to Bahorel, who's taken his seat back.

"Fuck yeah" he answers almost promptly, Grantaire would laugh, if he had the energy to produce that kind of positive response. Turns out he doesn't, although he tries, and what comes out is a whine that none of the three pretend to have heard. Bless them.

 

He waits until Montparnasse and Jehan are out of the picture to make his escape, well-knowing that his previous boyfriend would play a very big part into ruining his plans if he knew what he was up to. Parnasse leaves after a tight hug and a whisper in his ear to let him know he could call him anytime, _drop anytime, middle of the night if needed, you're welcome anytime.  
_

Jehan trails very cheerfully after him, and Grantaire tries very hard not to be annoyed by it while at the same time not quite getting the reason _why_ he's annoyed in the first place. He supposes he ought to get accustomed to that feeling from now on, as it seems to follow him around day and night.

_Withdrawal._

He stops his hand mid-way before it touches the rainbow, and flexes it in the air with the most casual expression he can muster. He doesn't think anybody notices. He hopes no-one does.

He breathes deep through his nose and bites his tongue again instead.

Predictably enough, Combeferre is the first to show his discomfort when Bahorel and Grantaire announce they're going to the boxing ring -- _THE_ boxing ring? Combeferre raises an eyebrow at him-- and will be back at the house in a few hours.

Courfeyrac frowns, but doesn't say anything.

Well, he doesn't open his mouth to out his thoughts, but looks to his boyfriend instead, who understands him either way.

Grantaire isn't having any of it.

"He won't be there" he says to Combeferre. "They're probably somewhere else committing some other kind of crime at this time of hour," he says, shrugging, as though it's no big deal. "It's two in the afternoon-- _for fuck's sake, I can take care of myself._ " He snaps, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to ignore Enjolras scowling in his direction from his chair. Grantaire can see him move in his place almost restlessly, as if he wants to chime in. He doesn't give him the opportunity to, and instead turns around and drags Bahorel behind him after a "that's settled then. See you later."

But of course it isn't going to be that easy, he knows that, he just likes to hope.

_Hope._

Combeferre catches them at the door.

"Let me have a word with him" is what he says looking at Bahorel, gesturing to the tables with his head, and all Grantaire can think is: _Him?_

"Mom, must you embarrass me like this in front of all my friends?" He says, as he watches Bahorel return to the closest table, Joly and Bossuet's. Now Musichetta's too.

Combeferre smiles at him like he's really found that funny.

"I promise I'll behave" Grantaire goes on. "I won' pick a fight with any of the other boys..."

Combeferre still has that smile in his face, and Grantaire realizes that yes, that's a real smile. He also realizes Ferre's hands are on both his hips, and wonders if he's doing that on purpose.

"Won't you?" Ferre asks.

"What do you think I'm taking Bahorel with me for?" R smiles smugly, and at that, Combeferre lets out a laugh. _A laugh_. To say Grantaire is taken aback is an understatement, and he looks up to the scorching sun and mutters something about how hot it is so that Combeferre takes the hint, and also because his brain doesn't provide any other witty retort after that unexpected reception.

Then, much to Grantaire's relief, Ferre is back to his serious self.

_Fair enough._

"Isn't there somewhere else you can go?" he asks, and Grantaire lets himself think that yes, that sounds like apprehension but no, it's really not there, and it's the lack of angel dust making him imagine it. "That can't be the only--"

"I have no money," he cuts him off, "Montparnasse paid for the membership months ago," Grantaire explains, and when Combeferre's hand goes to rest on his trousers' back pocket, Grantaire's brain goes into a short-circuit and he snaps: " _Don't even_ \-- _stop_ \-- I don't want your money!" He shakes his head in disbelief, not caring that he's managed to sound even harsher than he intended.

He sighs again --is he out of breath?-- and wipes the sweat on his forehead.

"Look man," he shifts his weight and musters a serious expression before looking Combeferre in the eyes. "I need-- I need to get this energy out, all right? It's _not_ good energy, I'm _not_ coping today..." he pauses, and mutters: "... _if you hadn't noticed already."_

"I understand" Combeferre nods, a softer edge to his voice now. "You're detoxing, it's just natural you need a distraction," Grantaire winces at the word, so accurate, so perfect, and stops hearing what Ferre is saying.

 _A distraction_.

He looks at him and finds that professional, doctor attitude all about. From the way he's talking, to the way he's gesturing with his hands. And Grantaire has to give him credit for that. If there is someone who gets what he needs --albeit from a different perspective-- that's got to be Combeferre. Which brings him back to tag onto the monologue he's giving: "...see that it's difficult to fight the urge, but you need to detach yourself from that environment, there _are_ other ways--" 

" _Nope_." Grantaire cuts him off again, his patience starting to run short. "That's my way, that's my _only_ way. I'm making you a favor by inviting Bahorel to come along" he says, and Combeferre rises both eyebrows, as if saying: 'Oh, _really_?'. Grantaire hears it in his head. "Just-- _please_ , just help a brother out?" he ends with another sigh.

Something in Combeferre's expression changes, though R can't pinpoint what exactly, so he's not sure if it's a good or a bad sign.

He eyes him carefully, almost too carefully, makes Grantaire feel like he's back in the emergency room, being stared down and analyzed, being pitied.

"I trust you to take care of it" Ferre says, after half a minute of seemingly battling with himself, and he puts a hand on R's shoulder --perhaps as a gesture of encouragement, of understanding-- and Grantaire is short of panicking knowing there are more than a pair of eyes on them right now and that Combeferre is behaving as though they're close, _as though they're mates_ , and _what the fuck is going on..._

He doesn't pick up on the grammar inaccuracy until a couple of keys dingle in front of his face, subsequently bringing him out of his panicked-induced reverie.

He blinks.

"You haven't had anything to drink, right?"

Grantaire shakes his head, because is Combeferre truly giving him the keys of his car? Is it even _his_? Doesn't matter, he's giving it to him, and Grantaire doesn't have a driving license.

When the keys land on his hand, R opens his mouth to inform him of it, and at that same moment reason comes back to him to remind him that _yes_ , Combeferre is aware of this fact already.

He's starting to understand the situation --and even takes a moment to scold himself for believing he was going to get away with it-- and all the sympathy he was beginning to feel toward the doctor dissipates in the span of three seconds when he sees Enjolras and Bahorel standing a few feet from each-other.

He lets out a very long sigh, and closes his eyes.

His hand goes to press at his nose _._

_Don't lose your shit now, you're doing so good..._

His right hand wants to touch the rainbow, but he puts it in his pocket and turns it into a fist.

"Can't somebody else come?" He asks, surprised at the calmness in his voice. _Anybody_ else.

Then he realizes what that must sound like, so he continues with: "You saw the kind of place it is, you think he's gonna have a nice time?" he points shamelessly at Enjolras with what he hopes is a mocking expression. "Can't promise he won' comeback with a shiner." Grantaire shrugs, his last attempt at trying to break Combeferre --and honestly, probably Courfeyrac's too-- scheme.

If he has the slightest compassion for his blond best-friend, Combeferre is going to let him off the hook, Grantaire thinks, but suddenly it downs him, that Enjolras doesn't seem the little bit displeased that he's getting to babysit him for the day. He's standing there, chit-chatting with Bahorel, grinning like he's going to Disneyland instead of a criminal hole. Actually, scratch that, Enjolras probably came up with the idea, because apparently he's the devil in disguise.

Combeferre pats him on the shoulder and smiles one more time at him before returning inside, as all of Grantaire's plans shatter in front of his eyes.

He's left standing there, staring at the pair of keys in his hand.

_Well, this backfired completely, didn't it?_

He weighs the keys on his hand.

 _You can always make a run for it_ , his brain provides, like he's got any chance of pulling _that_ off.

He laughs when Bahorel and Enjolras join him outside, because how he got here he's not sure, but it's really bordering on the absurd. The one person he was trying to get away from, stares at him with a stoic expression.

It makes Grantaire's blood boil, for some reason --not that he needs any reason to get all worked up, he's already accepted that-- and he cannot do much to prevent his body from showing it. He puts the keys to Enjolras' chest with unnecessary force, and if Bahorel picks up on the gesture of hostility, he doesn't say anything.

"Lead the way" Grantaire almost barks at him.

Enjolras' expression doesn't change, and he pulls one of his golden curls out of his face without breaking eye-contact.

Grantaire bites his sore tongue once again, because _you can't do that while we're having a passive-aggressive stare-down you motherfucking know-it-all._

He wants to trap him against the wall and kiss that fucking blank expression away. See something there, see _answers_.

Bahorel coughs. Grantaire thinks even awkwardly, and he takes that as his cue to stop glaring at Enjolras.

This is the twentieth-first century. And what they had was just a one-night-stand, God knows why Enjolras even allowed that to happen because, honestly, he's a twenty. Grantaire's a five, at most. Whatever the reason, it happened. And whatever happened, it doesn't need explaining, he reminds himself. He wouldn't be asking for an explanation in any other circumstances, with any other person, so why should this be any different?

The answer is: it isn't.

It can't be.

_I won't let it be._

He doesn't want to be that person again.

He clung to Courfeyrac for dear life, and where did that get him?

 _Exactly_ , his brain provides, happy he's in the right course of thought for once.

He rushes to get into one of the backseats before Bahorel decides to even offer him the co-pilot's. His shirt is already wet and sticking to his back, and every pore of his body seems to be emanating heat.

He puts on the seat-belt, and feels his muscles trapped.

When the car starts moving, he closes his eyes and tries to relax. Not to be self-conscious.

He doesn't succeed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that! Feedback's much appreciated (:
> 
> Buckle up guys, because R's up for some struggling from now on!


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